13 Lives
by Montenya of the Fairies
Summary: The master of death is a misnomer; it is death that is the master. Having only just finished fighting in his own universe, Harry finds himself forced by his new master to fight an entirely new war in an entirely new world. At least he's allowed to bring friends. Planned weekly updates, slow progression.
1. Prologue

Thirteen bodies gathered in a room. Six girls, seven boys. Enough to field nearly two full quidditch teams were they in a better, less somber mood.

Neville Longbottom had entered the room first, unlocking the door after several failed attempts—the mechanism was rusted, it seemed—and being followed in by Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. They'd come as a group and huddled towards the back of the room silently as they waited for the rest to arrive. A short time later Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson came in. They made their way to the back of the room but remained silent as well. Oliver Wood apparated near the door less than a minute later, and moved to talk with them, to see how they were doing.

The Weasleys, as usual, arrived as a group. George split off to kiss Angelina, Percy split off to a corner, and Ginny went for the majority of the other Quidditch players. Draco Malfoy slipped in immediately after them, slouched against the wall and making as much effort as Percy in making conversation.

Luna entered last, but even she arrived nearly a quarter of an hour before Harry had asked them to.

Thirteen witches and wizards. Thirteen fighters. Thirteen celebrities. Thirteen people who would never be seen again.

Less than a year after the killing of Voldemort Harry had realized that the deathly hallows may have had more of a hold on him then he'd ever wanted to believe. It took an additional twelve months before he realized (and accepted) what, exactly, he would have to do, and even then it had taken being slapped over the head, repeatedly, before he bowed to reality.

He'd told Ron and Hermione.

They'd refused to let him go alone.

Ron had slipped up and told Ginny, Percy, and George, who had similarly invited themselves along. George brought along his girlfriend, who brought along the rest of Harry's first year Quidditch team in the process. Luna, who had invited herself along before anyone else even knew it was an option, had invited Neville and Draco along herself. Harry had drawn the limit there—he hadn't really wanted to drag anyone else with him, so an additional twelve was plenty.

"I don't..." Harry started. There was this idea, this misconception, that because he was the 'chosen one' he was good at speeches, and he'd never quite figured out why people persisted in believing it was true. "I don't know where we're going. I know we'll all end up in the same place eventually, but that's it. If you want to back out now, no one would blame you and I'd honestly be relieved." He waited. No one moved. "Alright, I guess this is it."

He paused, trying to think what to do next, then finally allowed the feeling that had been bubbling inside him for years to be released.

Thirteen veterans.

Vanished.

_Notes:_

_-In this story the Second Voldemort War was much longer and much more deadly_

_-In this story Peeta was killed by Cato and, while Katniss went on to be Victor, she too was killed during the 3__rd__ Quarter Quell, meaning that the revolt never quite got started and what little uprisings did occur were quickly snuffed out by her death._


	2. District 12: 87 ADD

**DISTRICT 12**

**87 ADD (After Dark Days)**

George wasn't really sure what would happen when they all met in the room. Harry had tried to describe it, sure, but beyond 'being reborn' and 'new world' he honestly didn't understand most of it. Actually, the main reason he'd agreed at all was because out of the few people who made life worth living anymore, most of them were already going or agreed to join him once he'd asked.

So, he'd figured, what was the harm? This world sucked—they'd tried their best, and still not much changed—so why not try again? Perhaps the next world would be a bit more amenable to improving, or at least being half-decent human beings to begin with.

This characterization was perhaps a bit harsh, but little in his life motivated him to be kinder, so he was more than ready to abandon the wizarding world in a pile of ash.

There was something deeply wrong with a world that didn't give a damn that an eleven year-old girl was possessed by Voldemort and had to be saved by a twelve year-old boy going up against and _defeating_ one of the most dangerous creatures known to wizarding kind.

There was something deeply wrong with a world that allowed everything that followed that event, too.

Still, even though he'd agreed—even though he was more than ready for his second life, for his take-two, George hadn't quite believed anything would actually happen. Too much of his life had been devoted to showing him, to screaming at him, that nothing, good or bad, should ever be taken for granted, should ever be expected, should ever be thought to be a guarantee...

He had no problem if it did happen, but up until the very last second George was still convinced Harry would snap his fingers or something and then they'd all wait while nothing changed.

While everything stayed exactly the same.

So when they'd got to the room, when they'd stood clustered together with nothing but the clothes on their backs (Harry was quite clear that this would be much more of a rebirth than an apparition), George had expected nothing to happen at all.

And then something did.

He wasn't quite certain how old he was when he finally became aware of his own identity—his first few months, at least, certainly passed in a blur of new feelings and confusion and the inhibitions of an infant's brains being rapidly taken over by his memories and his sheer will, but eventually he realized that it had actually happened, that it did actually work.

He was in a new world, one of thick air and coarse blankets and dozens of children raised together for hours at a time while both his mother and father and their mothers and fathers worked. A world of sickly coughs, of childish laughter, of fist fights in the streets and whistling tunes in the air.

The realization that it had actually happened, had actually worked, however amazing-insane-wonderful-stomach turning that little factoid was, was dwarfed by another realization, by something which made him immediately realize he owed an immeasurable debt to Harry, and Death, and whatever other force was even marginally involved in allowing this to happen, in putting together everything that happened between the end of the world and now to get him to this point:

Fred was here too.

Gred and Forge—or, more accurately, Sean and Conor—were back together again, ready to take an entirely new world by storm.


	3. District 11: 88 ADD

**DISTRICT 11**

**88 ADD**

Choosing to follow Harry wherever the other boy led was not a decision that Neville took long to make. Actually, he hadn't even had to be asked by Harry himself—when Luna told him that Harry would be better off if he agreed to 'go on a (possibly deadly) adventure', Neville agreed on the spot.

It wasn't that he thought Harry was without fault. Over the course of their Hogwarts education, over the course of the war that followed, Neville became very, very aware of the imperfections inherent in everyone. But all the same Harry was one of the few people Neville knew that really, truly, completely wanted to do the right thing. He might fail sometimes, sure, and he might stumble when things got rough, but Harry rarely chose to do something just because it might make his own life better—his every action seemed specifically decided upon in an attempt to help others.

Neville wasn't like that. Neville wanted to be liked, wanted to be respected, wanted to be left alone, wanted to be included—he had a hundred internal motivations that wrestled and fought for control over every decision he had to make. All of that wasn't necessarily bad, but it did mean that his imperfections were, to him, perhaps a little less forgivable than Harry's own.

Case in point: Harry was apparently (accidently, of course, because the other Gryffindor really did have the worst luck) the 'Master of Death' —a title which was, shocker, a misnomer. No, Harry had no more control over life and death than he'd ever had before becoming its so-called master. Instead Death, or at least a being identifying itself as such, had control over Harry, and could use him as a puppet to do as the deity wished.

And the deity wished for Harry to play hero all over again.

All of this had been explained by Harry as he helped Neville trim a recently acquired devil's snare, worded as if Harry couldn't quite believe the words coming out of his mouth himself.

Neville had no problem believing it. Why would it not be true, after all, in a world which had prophecies and time travel and hocruxes and _magic_?

He'd accepted it as the truth the second he was told it, told it by a boy who'd never quite managed to lie convincingly a day in his life.

And so, merely three years later, Neville found himself sitting against a lean-to beside his older sister Kisha as his mother gave birth to her third child with the help of her sister, a midwife, screaming in wretched pain while her husband—his father—paced, white-faced, outside.

"Antwan! Antwan!" Kisha snapped.

"What?" Neville asked.

"Have ya been list'ning to a word I've bin sayin?" The four year-old asked.

"No."

"Well, list'n now." She waited until Neville sat up and faced her. "You're gonna be a big brother now, so there's a whole buncha rules you gotta know. You gotta protect them, okay? And make sure they're doing good. We're family, ya know, so we gotta look out for each other."

Neville blinked. "I can do that." It would be years before he could be any help to the others—Merlin knows they weren't born anywhere near him—so here was something else he could do, something he could do because it was the right thing to do rather than any real or imagined reward. "I'll be the bestest big brother ever."


	4. District 10: 89 ADD

**DISTRICT 10**

**89 ADD**

Farsight ran in the Lovegood family. Some, erroneously, thought it came from her mother's side, a misconception which likely manifested from the belief that only women could be true seers. It was actually her father's father—a man who had died before she'd even been born, and who had abandoned civilized life even before that, before her father had seen his tenth birthday—who passed on the gift to her.

Of course, he'd passed on all the gift's faults as well.

Her father had been so taken in with her sight, her vision, her wondrous ability, that he'd never even thought to tell her that all that she saw wasn't necessarily native to this plane. Her mother, for all her many gifts and talents, never quite seemed to realize that Luna had anything more than an active imagination, so she too could provide no guidance.

It was Professor Vector who finally took her aside, explained to her in soft tones the three different types of far-sight—over time, place, and plane—and that her Crumple-horned Snorkacks may very well exist, but they didn't exist here.

Unfortunately the timing was a bit poor, what with the explanation coming mere days before the Carrow siblings took control of Hogwarts, but the information was still life changing.

After the war (or at least the deadliest part of it) was over, Luna had written to every other farsighted person there was record of.

Many came back undelivered. Still more were simply not answered. Enough, however, responded to her queries that she was able to piece together the basics of her ability, the foundations of what she was capable of.

And then, of course, she'd seen herself on another world.

She immediately went to Harry, because who else would be to blame, and he—after getting over his shock ("how is it that you always know a bit more than me?" he'd asked, and she'd assured him that wasn't true)—explained his 'dreams' to her, his arguments with the being called death over whether or not he got any say in being reborn and forced to play hero all over again.

She asked him if he'd asked Death if he could bring friends.

He had not.

Death didn't mind.

And now Luna sat at the fencing between a pasture of goats and a pasture of cattle, whistling to the birds which fluttered from tree to tree as they perfectly mimicked her every sound: Mockingjays.

District 10 (the livestock district, a region solely devoted to keeping the Capital sated with every possible animal product they could ever need) was not a bad place to live, really. Well, actually, in many ways it was awful—just that day she'd watched a boy only nine years older than herself be gutted alive by a girl barely older than him, because it was literally illegal to not have seen that—but with this new life came an end to the visions, and with that came a sort of clarity that she had never experienced before.

She was still considered slightly odd (she doubted she'd ever shed that particular reputation), but now she had the gift of sight in the present: the ability to more easily watch the cattle as they jockeyed back and forth, the ability to understand exactly how poorly her District neighbors were treated, and why, and the ability to realize that for all that everyone could be redeemable, the pain it would take to turn some of them was far from an equal exchange. The Luna of this life was more cynical than she'd ever been before, Luna thought, but then she could also feel the dirt beneath her feet, and that was hard to beat.


	5. District 9: 90 ADD

**DISTRICT 9**

**90 ADD**

Katie had perhaps stupidly thought they'd be born near each other. It hadn't taken long to realize that that wasn't the case. She knew, at the very least, that none of them were born near her, because she hadn't been born near anyone else. Her name was still Katie here (actually, no one thought to call her by anything other than pet names, so she'd simply kept the one she'd already had) and here there was grain.

And grain.

And more grain.

Other districts, Katie was sure, were a bit more varied, but in District 9 only ten goods were produced: barley, buckwheat, corn, millet, oats, quinoa, rice, sorghum, spelt, and wheat. Technically bakeries and the like also made products from the grain, but those jobs only happened near the railroad, and she was born at the edge of the district, on a barley farm.

Life was mundane on the farm. It wasn't like those old-timey granges there were pictures of in her old elementary school textbook; instead everything was done by giant, looming machines. From seed to harvest there was nothing nostalgic, nothing humanizing in the process: it was mechanical, and the people that lived and worked there were spread few and far between, perhaps one or two meant to manage a few machines based on the season, one or two per three fields to keep the machines in working order, and maybe the supervisor for the nearest nine or ten fields (at about 1,000 acres a field) too.

That was it.

Katie was born to Barba on one of the north-most farms, nearly bordering the wall dividing districts 9 and 10, and now she was four, and about to leave the only three people she really knew this life: her mother, the other farmer, and the field's mechanic.

"I don't want to go!" Katie whined. She stood at the edge of the road where they dropped off the harvest every year, holding a cloth bag with her change of clothes and a grass doll Barba had made for her several years back.

"You must." Barba said. She hugged Katie again. "You must."

Katie frowned. The only other time she'd ever left the farm was for the Games every year, and those were horrors she 'must' endure too.

"I don't want to." Katie repeated. "Are they gonna make me watch people die again?"

Barba frowned. "School's about more than that." She said. "It's about math, and reading, and the like—if you're good enough, you might even be able to get a proper job at a bakery or some such."

"I don't want a job at a bakery!" Katie whined. She wanted to stay here, stay with the familiar. She'd agreed to stray so far from what she knew because she had thought she was doing it _with_ the others, not alone, and now that she was settled in once more she didn't want to take that risk again, especially when she knew no one was coming along with her.

Past the horizon a cloud of dust rose, and her mother stood.

"It's time for you to move on, Katie. Neither you nor I can do anything about that." She paused, sucking in a breath. "It's time for you to be your own person, and I know you can be a good one."


	6. District 8: 91 ADD

**DISTRICT 8**

**91 ADD**

Alicia Spinnet was born a half-blood in a world where being anything but 100% pure was unacceptable. Despite both of her parents having had attended Hogwarts, her father's muggleborn nature meant she wasn't allowed to live in certain parts of her town, wasn't allowed to vote in certain elections, wasn't allowed to climb the ranks to the upper class.

Her father's decision to send her to a muggle primary school had exacerbated that, had made many people treat her like a (worthless, disgusting) muggleborn every time she slipped up and used 'slang' from those (worse than worthless) muggles.

Alicia didn't care. Some of her best friends were muggleborn—Katie, Janet, her father—and she was happier when she was hanging out with the people who didn't care about how 'clean' someone's blood was. Admittedly, that did eliminate half her family, but she didn't mind.

And then she'd fallen in love with Fred Weasley.

She hadn't meant to—there had been a dance, and Fred and George had asked her and Angelina to go as friends, and then they'd spent the entire night talking. Six months later they were dating—really dating, too—and so were George and Angelina, and suddenly the twins were spending a lot less time with each other and a lot more time with them.

And then the war came.

Because of course it did.

And then Fred died.

Because of course he did.

And then the war ended, because the world must go on, and everyone had to start tending to their wounds and icing the bruises on their heart with almost a forced amnesia of what was lost along the way, because they were just children and how could they cope? How could they continue to live when so many died? When they were forced to do such horrific things? See such horrific sights? Be such horrific people?

None really managed to forget, but all tried.

And then Harry offered a new lifetime, an entirely new place for everything to go to hell and an entirely new situation where they could come out the other side battered and bruised and having won the very definition of a pyrrhic victory, with so many dead or mad or might-as-well-be-either that even years after the fact it still felt like the war kept on going.

And George said yes. And Angelina said yes. And Katie said yes, and Oliver said yes, and everyone else said yes, so what was she supposed to say? What else could she possibly do?

This lifetime, Alicia quickly found, was even worse than she'd imagined.

She was born in a District—a giant regional workcamp—that focused on textiles, and she grew up in a tenement where the only reason people had children at all was to force them to take out dozens of tesserae the very second they were old enough to do so. There was mandatory education, sure—Alicia (or, more accurately, Verona) had started with the rest of the four year-olds, right on time—but the education really just amounted to indoctrination, and kids were forced to work before and after school anyway; no use letting labor go to waste, so unless a parent could afford to pay a nominal fee every child they had was going straight into the work force the second they were old enough to be useful.

She was a maintenance worker herself, a pretty good job compared to the lacing and sequinning and smocking other kids her age had to do, and she'd only gotten it because, thankfully, her athleticism from her first life had carried over. Her factory's schedule had her up every day at half past 5, at school from 6 to noon, with an hour after for lunch and play, and then to work until dusk.

Her world was marked by expressionless faces, by gaunt bodies. When they had the energy, families tried to force out what joy they could—if they were wealthy enough, or had sufficient children that food was less of an issue, then they might give gifts for birthdays; those who were too infirm to work in any of the factories often learned how to play instruments as a way to make a living... most of the time, however, people kept to themselves. It was tenement life at its finest—massive buildings owned by local landlords, communal bathrooms that were usually broken or blocked by such a long line that the youngest simply had to go in the streets and hope that rain was sufficient to keep them clean. There were dens, too, tiny shanties outside of tenements for single folk—the average cost for a tenement room around her tended to be just a bit more than what two incomes could afford, and often landlords preferred families to groups of individuals.

Alicia's own parents were much like the others; they regularly popped out kids for both their general income and, when they were old enough, their tesserae too. Within the tenements Alicia noticed that many parents seemed to, despite the circumstances, genuinely care for and want the best for their children. Her parents seemed ambivalent at best.

When she was three her younger brother, barely two months old, had caught something and died. They had not tried to seek treatment; they knew they could not afford it. On the other hand, when one of her older brothers—Ham—had gone ill, he had managed to afford treatment with the half of his salary that he was allowed to keep for himself. He'd been given some expensive medicine that had had to be imported, and told to get clean, take the meds, and not leave his bed until he felt better. Her parents had set her, as their only child who wasn't yet working, to be his caretaker. They hadn't the time or energy to help him themselves, but even though his income stopped and even though Alicia (or, as they called her, Verona) fell behind on housework, they hadn't kicked him out.

Some other parents would have.

Some other parents also took all of their children's income, and when they became adults they found themselves in the huts, trying desperately to save up enough and take care of themselves enough to appeal to at least one member of the other gender.

There was also...

Well, she couldn't really call it blood bigotry, but there certainly was a class system. She, as "Verona", was in the lowest of all of them. Nearly everyone else she met—her family, her neighbors, her coworkers—they were similarly encumbered by an absolute lack of power. Then was the next step up; the minor managers in the factory, many of the shopkeepers, the teachers. They lived in apartments more than tenements; most had their own bathrooms, they proudly proclaimed, they did not need so many children to keep afloat, they might even allow their children to keep the whole of their wages—sometimes, at least.

The next class up, the highest she'd ever met, even fleetingly, ran the factories, owned the more expensive shops, were the doctors. Their children kept the whole of their wages, and might even be manipulated into cushy jobs—Cyril, the foreman of her factory block, had gotten his daughter Gwen a job at a local doctor's, exempting her from the requirement that, should you be able to work and have no other job, you must have a job in a textile factory.

Their blood equivalent, as far as she could tell, was a half-blood. They were not even the highest class in the District—those that lived near the rail, that governed the place and owned multiple factories and who were allowed to, so long as they could pay, import goods from other Districts and sell them within. They certainly weren't the Peacekeepers either, those terrifying men in stark white uniforms who didn't even care if you murdered in front of them so long as it wasn't disturbing the peace, much less any Capitol Citizen—those that outranked even the Peacekeepers, those that were only seen once a year when people were murdered in front of the whole of the nation for both sport and threat.

But they were still far more than a lifetime's worth of social climbing above Alicia, and even their lives were barely better than her life before, her life of war and torture and death.

Her first life had had its problems, had had its devils and demons and saints—even before the war she would never have claimed her life was perfect, with the bigotry that ran rampant and the happiness that was forever fleeting—but this life...

This life was so much worse.


	7. District 7: 92 ADD

**DISTRICT 7**

**92 ADD**

District 7 was really just a giant woodland. In the north there were vast swaths of taiga forests, with all types of conifers stretching out as far as the eye could see. Oliver's grandparents lived in those forests, part of a community which focused almost solely on pines.

All the way to the south were the looming green houses for tropical trees, roofs stretched up taller than even the skyscrapers Oliver remembered from London. He'd only been there once—his father wanted to take part in a wood-cutting competition the City was running, so they'd all hitched a ride to see the shining structures. The mills were there, too, mostly; there were others throughout the district, but the majority bracketed the railroad which ran across the southern third of it.

Oliver was born in the middle of the district as Alban Red, son of Alban and Sara Red. He grew up in a temperate forest where the denseness of the vegetation meant you couldn't see more than a few dozen feet in any direction and the vegetation had to be continuously trimmed back from the roads and walkways just to keep them usable. He'd been a dearly hoped for child, many years in the making, and it was peaceful.

That didn't mean that he was oblivious to the problems of this world. Having had to start working at four was a bit of a shock to the system, not to mention how inherently dangerous it was to send a kid that young (or any age, really) scrambling up a tree to cut down the smaller branches—the first job most had.

The peacekeepers were a problem, too: they were constantly there, constantly watching. If your community wasn't meeting production standards (which his, thankfully, always did) then they'd send an additional influx of peacekeepers in, too, just to make sure you weren't getting lazy or rebellious or something.

And then, of course, there were the Games.

He still remembered the first Games he had had to watch. He and his community had gathered in the center of the log-cabin style homes of people who all lived together, ate together, and worked together. The peacekeepers had put up a large white sheet against the largest of the homes, the one reserved for the peacekeepers themselves, and set up a projector opposite it. His parents had sat down on either side of him, bracketing him in place, and then the screen flickered to life.

Oliver didn't think he'd ever forget the screams of the first child he'd ever seen Reaped; a girl, barely thirteen, who had known immediately just as everyone who was watching did that she was not going to live. The Parade, the Interviews, and the Games themselves were likewise burned in his brain, nestled beside his memories of the organ-ripping curse at work, of Marcus Quimby seizing under the effects of the cruciatus curse, of what St. Mungo's had looked like after the war was over and everyone was dragging any body—alive or dead—inside just to see if there was a chance they could be saved, could be fixed, could be whole again.

So he wasn't exactly oblivious to the horrors of this world.

But he was also not oblivious to its charms.

He loved his parents, loved the elders and the other children (despite his lifetime of memories he still found himself quite capable of playing, of acting his age, of joining in the excitement of excitement), he loved his neighbors and his friends and he loved the plants and animals that surrounded him.

He loved his father's laugh and his mother's snark and how his grandparents, whenever his parents made the trek up to see them, always had something to give him, however small.

He loved how cozy their little speck of the world could feel, when the whole town was whistling a merry tune and they'd already met that month's wood requirement and someone had killed a deer the day before so everyone was going to eat well that night. He loved when his father—as the town spokesperson—took him along to declare that quarter's total wood output, and they spent the day sitting in a massive truck and going south, south, south, past woods that blurred by his door like they had used to when he had flown, and his dad was telling him stories and he was telling some back and the Peacekeepers were in their own little trucks, not overhearing for once, and Oliver got to watch as the trees, mostly oak, that he knew so well slowly began to dissipate into other trees, as they passed by other settlements, as they stopped by a lake partway to the destination to have a snack and then spend the rest of the half-hour getting clean while learning how to swim.

Actually getting there was less fun, of course—he stood to the side while his father stood in the line and the other two drivers from his settlement went to deposit the last of that quarter's wood, and he spent the next hour or two watching as one by one each spokesperson spoke with the Capitol official and the City official and got that month's paycheck. But then they got to go to the market, and speak with loads of different shops, and order the food and medicine and blankets that the elders had put together in a list of what was needed. After that was the mad rush home—the less time driving in the dark the better—and Oliver trying and failing to stay awake to keep his father company and finally blinking his eyes open only to find himself in his dad's arms, being carried to his bed while his mother laughs quietly at the senior Alban's descriptions of the junior's attempts at wakefulness.

Truthfully, he wasn't looking forward to all this coming to an end, because Harry's mission made it clear there would be an end, and he spent every day trying to make the best of what little peace he'd be allowed to experience yet.

If there was one thing either life had taught him, it was that good things never lasted forever, so why not make the best of it?


	8. District 6: 93 ADD

**DISTRICT 6**

**93 ADD**

Angelina Johnson had always considered herself a very pragmatic person, so when she found herself reborn into an area where just about every vice was more common than a drop of clean water, she'd simply decided to make the best of it.

District 6, her home just as much as Worcester ever was, was built on transportation.

Factories, some of them literally miles long, built everything from trains to planes to automobiles, and a thick fog of she-didn't-want-to-know-what constantly hovered in the air, ready to be breathed in by people who had no other choice.

District 6 was also what would have in her old world been called a police state. This wasn't a surprise, really—Angelina doubted a single district wouldn't have qualified as such, not even the coveted District 1, because the Capitol sure as hell weren't about to give up any control to the actual residents of the lands. But District 6 had it worse, because they were apparently one of the more rebellious districts.

For some reason.

Anyway, it made the district's issue with drugs all that more hilarious, because it was clear from the get-go that the Peacekeepers simply didn't care if you were a morphling or a coke addict or anything else as long as the factories met quotas and no one got their hands on any weaponry—she'd seen a man get beaten in the streets because they thought he had a knife, and she'd seen the same Peacekeepers have to be convinced to intervene when another man, high on morph, had jumped onto his neighbor and went on the attack.

Angelina, positioned as she was in a family of thugs and low-level criminals, started out as a drug mule at age four. She began working Old Man Pim, a bookie-cum-loan shark (and possibly her uncle, though that relationship was never confirmed), at age six. And at age seven she broke the Peacekeeper's cardinal rule.

School had dragged on that day, meant more to keep kids off the streets than teach them anything. Unless you had an official job—like factory work or something—then you were stuck in the building for eight hours a day, locked in like criminals. It was hard to even call it a school, honestly; Hogwarts hadn't let you leave but then it had taught her and given her activities like Quidditch and Chorus to spend her time at. Here the classes had long periods of 'silent time', where children had to sit quietly for half an hour while the teachers graded tests and read essays and "took me-time." If they were considered good—they rarely were—then they might be allowed to read, or draw. If they ever tried to act up they were sent to the Peacekeepers immediately—no need for a warning; they were seven, they should know better.

The Peacekeepers, at least, treated the children of the District better than they treated the adults; they would be made to run, or do push-ups, or some other form of exercise, but that was it.

It didn't make the day any better.

They were let out at five exactly, and Anika had rushed through the record-keeping Old Man Pim had her do as quickly as possible. She worked in his office, usually, a tiny supply closet in the back of his official cover of a liquor store, and most of her evenings were spent crunching numbers to make sure that Old Man Pim got his "fair share." Sometimes he'd also use her as a runner, picking up or dropping off illicit goods, but mostly she was in the room, sitting at a desk shoved between open shelving at the back of the room and other storage supplies—mops, brooms, boxes of whatever he got particularly cheap that week—at the front. Her work, as usual, was immaculate and she was out of there by seven thirty.

By eight she had made her way to the furthest black market she knew of, had made absolutely damn well sure that none of cameras that speckled the factories had caught sight of her, and had made her way to a man who she had heard of through her dad's friend's son's girlfriend's roommate's brother.

"What d'ya want a machete for?" The man—names weren't really popular in this District, and she certainly hadn't told him that hers was Anika—asked.

"Yes or no." Angelina said.

"Now, don't be so hasty." The man laughed. He was missing an eye, and his hand hadn't stopped twitching since she'd first seen him—a morphling if she'd ever seen one. "'s just, machetes aren't exactly easy to come by, you know."

"I've got a morph supplier." She said. "A good one, too—real clean shit, no accidental overdoses this year."

"And the Peacekeepers ain't been poking around?" He asked. She tried not to roll her eyes.

"No. They've not even a hint." She was fairly sure that was bullshit, but then they hadn't cared enough to stop the dealer she ran for, so it amounted to the same thing. Hell, the only reason she knew she could offer a supplier was that he was clearly far gone enough that most dealers would see him as a liability and stop supplying—people as in deep as him lost the ability to be discrete, and given his (whispered) reputation as an arms dealer the risk was just not worth it.

"...what prices we talking?" He finally asked. Anika grinned.

Ten minutes later she slipped through the entrance of the nearest factory—hovercraft manufacturing, it looked like—and darted around a few corners and past enough camera blind spots for her to feel safe to head back to her house once more. She had to move carefully, though—while pressing the machete against her back under her shirt and jacket made it harder to hide, it also made injury much more likely.

It would be hell trying to find a place to practice with the weapon, but it'd be worth it in the arena. And she definitely would be heading for the arena: Harry was very clear about their meeting up, and she doubted they had all been born in this particular hellhole to make that part easier.

She slipped back into her house, and nodded to her dad—she'd gotten the promised price, and he'd notify his boss of the sale tomorrow. They'd get the money, and give him the drugs, and he'd be dead by the next day. Angelina wasn't exactly thrilled about that, but she had enough practice to know that if you didn't accept any losses you'd never have the chance to win the war.

It was unpleasant, deeply unpleasant, but that was true for a lot of life. It was best then, Angelina thought, for you to spend your life doing everything you could to keep the next generation from having to make the same decisions. The man would have to die, but hopefully when she was done no other man would be put in his position.


	9. District 5: 94 ADD

** DISTRICT 5**

** 94 ADD**

For all that the being was a divine being and inescapable fact of existence, Death was also an ass.

The less said about their relationship to begin with—Death deciding the best time for introductions was at three in the morning, Harry's utter terror that he was going mad or that, Morgana forbid, Voldemort was still alive and found his way into his head once more, the months of arguing back and forth over what exactly Death meant by "you have to"—... well, the less that can be said about all of that the better.

At the end of the day he still ended up doing exactly what the asshole wanted.

Of course, that wasn't enough for Death, because—and this couldn't be emphasized enough—the androgynous deity was a bastard. No, Death decided that Harry had to 'pay' for not going along with the fucker's plans like an obedient pet to begin with.

So, as what was totally a 'justified' and 'reasonable' response, Death decided it would be an absolutely great idea to bring the Dursleys along too.

At least the not-quite-omnipotent being was nice enough to wipe their memories, but Harry was still pissed.

Anyway.

The result was, despite this world's problems being far more... blatant... than his own, his childhood passed remarkably similarly.

Vernon—and his name was still Vernon, because of course it was—was the manager of Wind Farm Section 4, part of a huge enterprise that stretched across the mountains which edged the upper part of the district, closest geographically to the Capitol itself. The only people above him, Vernon was fond of saying, were the regional wind manager, the district wind manager, the governor and the Capital itself. He seemed to think that made him powerful.

Petunia—who also got to keep her name—was also hellishly similar to the Petunia he remembered, and despite the lack of suburbs—it was all apartments here, only the wealthiest and the poorest lived in houses— she still managed to run their little grouping of rooms as she had Number 4 Privet Drive. Everything was still regularly cleaned by Harry, Petunia had a nice little garden going on the little balcony they were rich enough to afford, and while there was no cupboard under the stairs to stuff her unwanted nephew into they'd had no trouble finding a trundle bed to hide under the couch during the day. (Harry found this little change to be one of the worst, in terms of his living arrangements. Yes, they couldn't lock him away anymore, but Petunia and Vernon still stayed up for hours watching TV—they genuinely enjoyed the Games when alone, and "outrage" watched when with friends, but the result was much the same: Harry was lucky, now, to get as much as six hours of sleep a night.)

Of them all, Dudley had perhaps changed the most, though his change was mostly external. Due to the truly imposing restrictions on food, no matter your income, he had shrunk from the size of an orca to merely a particularly well-fed manatee. He was also no longer swamped with toys, though this made little change in his personality—he'd barely played with most of what he'd been given in his first life, so the reduction in amount affected him little. The only other true differences was school: here Vernon and Petunia put a true value in learning Capital values, so Dudley quickly learned to parrot the school's propaganda to the genuine applause of his parents at dinner. His school scores were now actually slightly above average in history, political education, and "effort" scores, even if they were well below average in the 'less important' courses like math and science.

Which left Harry.

Or, more accurately Hugo, but if they got to keep their names then he did too.

Harry had figured out very quickly how this was all going to end. This was helped along by Death having no qualms admitting to it—while the mercurial beast didn't visit him that often, when the ass did they saw no point in secrets.

At least, Harry reminded himself, this time he could be prepared. He could exercise, and practice with weaponry, and learn as much as he could about how open his district was to rebellion, and do a hundred other small things to be ready for when everything went to hell.

Not, he reconsidered as Dudley, Godfrey, and Arvin shoved him into a muddy puddle by the school, that that would help in the immediate.

Eight year-old bodies, no matter how hard they tried, were a bit useless when defending against groups.

District Five itself (or at least Harry's little corner of it) was… well, it certainly was no Little Whinging, but it was far closer to that small suburb of Surrey than any place else Harry had ever been. Here, as with Little Whinging, 'keeping up with the Joneses' was first and last on everyone's list of what to do every day.

How big was your house? How much was your salary? How close were you to the Capital?

The Dursleys thrived in the culture.

Harry didn't.

Even in the miniaturized version of it, the version played out in classrooms and playgrounds, Harry failed.

Harry was born into the upper class, to be sure, but he was awkward, as unsure of himself and his place in the world as he had been in his first life. His aunt and uncle were also no help—in this world his father had been of an even higher class then they, until he and his wife were killed trying to force a revolution: that fact was one that his aunt and uncle never let him forget; far from empowering, attempting revolution was viewed within the District as pointlessly futile, a sign of insanity more than anything else.

He really had no chance—bad enough that his family constantly treated him as lesser, the first day of class his teacher had seen fit to lecture the entire class about the pointlessness of rebelling the second she'd gotten to his name.

Sometimes, though, Harry felt as if… as if actually, the over-the-top dismissal of rebellion attempts were actually desperate pleas for just that to happen.

For freedom to be granted.

It wasn't like life was wonderful, for all that their history books assured them it had once been far worse. It wasn't like the level and unfairness of the District-Capital set-up wasn't clear, wasn't blatant to even the most ignorant of inhabitants.

The Peacekeepers, Harry would reason to himself, might be why everyone was so deliberately calling out the utter absurdity of trying for rebellion. Even when they weren't blatantly watching they might be behind the scenes, might be poking at the edges, waiting for any sign of discontent.

Other times he thought that that thought process was absurd.

He remembered all too well life under abuse—was living it again once more—and he knew that he'd always wanted something to change, to get better, but had never acted on that desire, had known it to be too dangerous and stupid to even try.

Perhaps a more likely assumption was that the population of District 5 was like that.

Of course, it turned out that in his first life he had been wrong; if he'd tried at all, pushed harder, showed his bruises… if he'd demanded to be heard, it seemed like he actually would have been: child services existed in the UK, after all, and cases like his were more or less textbook for intervention at the very least.

But he'd never thought, never even considered that it might work.

This time he wouldn't be so stupid. There was no child services, of course, no entity that he could go to to point out the various crimes of Panem. But he _could_ fight back. Hell, that was the entire reason he'd been forced to be reborn here. So he would fight back, the Dursleys be damned, and he would get those around him to fight with him, the Capital be damned.

He wasn't a child anymore, not in soul. He wasn't inexperienced, wasn't terrified, wasn't ignorant. And his body wouldn't be weak forever either.

He picked himself up from the mud, ignoring the jeering boys beside him.

It wasn't time yet, but by the time it was Harry would make damn well sure he—and everyone else too—was prepared.


	10. District 4: 95 ADD

** DISTRICT 4**

** 95 ADD**

Percy had been a bit... reluctant, he supposed, to go along with whatever it was that was keeping Harry up at night. His reluctance had grown all that much more when it had been explained _what_, exactly, he was signing up for.

But, well, Penelope was dead, Fred was dead, his father was dead, his best friend Tom was dead... everyone was dead.

And while Percy hadn't necessarily chosen the side that got them that way, he also hadn't chosen the side that managed to put an end to the deaths—or at least, he hadn't chosen that side immediately.

So Percy had approached this new life as if it were simply a chance at redemption.

District 4 was, as it turned out, perfect for that.

Up until the late '60s, District 4 was considered a bit of a nothing district. The talent some of its tributes had with tridents and the like kept a trickle of sponsorships coming during the Games, which in turn allowed for slightly more freedom outside of them, but... well, honestly everyone had still been miserable.

Then came Governor Olive Deep. He'd won the 53rd Hunger Games in a fairly decisive manner, using the terrain to his advantage and killing eight of his competitors himself. He didn't stop at a mere victory, either, instead using the support he'd earned as a victor to push for—and successfully get granted—a huge stimulus package from the Capitol.

And he'd used it.

He'd reformed the educational system, paying for District 3 to create educational pads that could be used while kids were at sea and then creating a massive standardized test to be undertaken every year by every student between the Parade and the Interviews. He'd pushed changes that made the fishing industry more sustainable, reorganized, expanded, and streamlined the District Government, agreed to tutor any child that wanted to be tutored in how to win the Games, and installed a radio system with a terrifically long range that could reach all but the furthest afield boats.

It was the latter that Percy was most in awe of.

On the surface the radio channel seemed fairly straightforward: it notified people of the weather throughout the seas, gave updates about what was happening on land, made announcements on births and deaths, _constantly_ talked about the wonder of the capitol...

But in doing so it didn't reduce the rebellious spirit of the district.

It stoked it.

It was, if anything, the overtness of the "love the Capitol" message that made people never let go of the knowledge that the way they were treated was unacceptable. Well, that and the knowledge that the radio tower was actually run inside of District borders—if there were ever to be a rebellion, then communications wouldn't be nearly as closed off as they had been in the Dark Days.

In the past forty or so years District 4 had quickly rose to the status of Capitol darlings—while they didn't send up careers nearly as often as 1 or 2, they were still regular enough that they were sometimes even treated as favorites—and, beginning in 87 ADD, the Governor and their family were even allowed to visit the Capitol on special occasions to wine and dine. Things were certainly looking up, and Percy was going to absorb as much as he could about how to keep it that way. All, of course, while ensuring the flames of rebellion never even neared going out, no matter what the Capitol and their pet peacekeepers thought.

It was here that Percy was born, the son of two career bureaucrats—pay division.

It was true that the rebellious nature of his district was about as blatant as it could be, but Percy also faced a huge limit to understanding it: nearly every phrase used to show and create support for revolt did so through metaphor.

Which was fine.

It even made sense—how else to make sure the Capital had no idea was going on than by relating the revolt to experiences no Capital citizen or Peacekeeper had, could have, experienced themselves.

Which meant the references were about fishing.

This was all well and good, but Percy's family was landbound.

He had just as much chance as the Peacekeepers, really, at understanding the references—less of a chance, actually; Peacekeepers might not have been doing the fishing, but they were certainly on every ship.

Percy still did fine.

He wouldn't be coerced down the wrong road due to a lack of understanding this time; he would understand the undercurrents.

Beginning when he was eight Percy had volunteered to be a 'tutor'; someone who would go onto boats and take care of all the little ones while everyone else worked. Once on a ship he did his job, to be sure, but he also volunteered for any others; by nine he'd watched or done nearly every part of the fishing process.

Physically he was still far too unfit, in terms of skill he would never match up to those who were lifers, but he understood the lingo now. He understood the subtext of the conversations around him, had firsthand experience of why the Peacekeepers and Capital were hated so much, even here, in a 'career' district (well, besides the Games itself, which was sufficient in and of itself to incite rebellion.)

District 4 was overtly pro-Capital. They would happily sing the anthem, would watch the Games without complaint, would self-police to 'alleviate' the Peacekeepers' workload.

Percy, Garin now, was in lockstep with them.

And nearly everyone in District 4—an overwhelming majority, actually, given that the Capital didn't seem to be that worried—happily swore loyalty to Panem with fingers crossed behind their backs.


	11. District 3: 96 ADD

** DISTRICT 3**

** 96 ADD**

Hermione was built for District 3. At the age of one, two, and three each and every child had to take an exam, an intensive day-long procedure, and based on those scores at they were shuffled to one of three levels of three Technical Training schools the District had available—BTT, a "boarding school" for those who underperformed, ITT, schools that were more local for those who were merely average, and PATT, the Panem Advanced Technical Training school, for those who "could actively contribute to the betterment of the Capitol and Panem at large."

She, of course, had been sent to the latter.

It was important, at least to her, that while her rebirth had been helpful, it had also not by itself guaranteed admission. Hermione, Hermosa now, was an odd mix of the memories and knowledge and thoughts of her first life with the reasoning capacity and feelings and youth of her second, although even that description felt too narrow and inaccurate. Most times the two seemed to balance each other out almost unnaturally well, but Hermione was never unaware of the odd bifurcation of her personality, of what was and what is working together to form what will be.

Regardless, at four she ended up in PATT, the preeminent school in all of the districts (which wasn't exactly hard considering that Districts 1-3 were the only ones that had advanced schools at all and only 1 and 3 were really focused on the academic aspect.)

It hadn't taken long for Hermione as Hermosa to make a name for herself. Tests of her logical deduction and analytical reasoning and comprehension frequently saw her scores placed with those many years older, and her avid consumption of any and all knowledge she could get her hands on—the only times she ever stopped reading was to deal with her body's needs, to go to class, or to exercise—quickly made her rise to the attention of her teachers, and then the principals, and then their superiors.

At six she was sat down opposite a man from the Capitol and (after appropriate greetings befitting a District girl of herself meeting someone from such a prestigious place) examined for any signs of possible rebellion.

It was here that her first life suddenly became very, very useful.

Hermione knew all too well how important it was to evade detection, and so even after the war was over she'd spent time talking with Draco, with Zacharias, and with every other turncoat for hours—how, exactly, she wanted to know, had they evaded notice for so long? At the time she had been more interested in ensuring there were no backstabbers hiding in their midst, but she was still very careful to milk any information at all—not just what she had an immediate use for.

The knowledge wasn't exactly a perfect parallel to what she needed now—the Capital man would be even more wary if it seemed as if she had no problems with the layout of the world—but she managed to use it and her own character to convince him that no, actually, she had no desire to rebel; only knowledge, only learning, only research interested her.

Even though these interviews repeated once a year, every year Hermione had no doubt the man believed her. The Capitol would have seen no reason to keep her alive if he had not.

Beyond keeping safe, Hermione's mind and attention were generally split between understanding as much of this world and the wealth of knowledge available to her as possible, and wishing desperately for any sign the others were here with her.

The latter was relatively easy in some areas, and monstrously difficult in others; history, despite its veneer of propaganda, was actually fairly accessible if you knew how to look past the bias, and the science of the world was laid out for any student of PATT on a silver platter. How the other districts were run, on the other hand? That took significantly more logical deduction.

Maps were like those for the London Underground—useful, to some extent, but not geographically accurate. There was a list of projects that any District 3 resident could work on whenever they wished, as well as the theoretical location of the project (Capitol, District 4, etc) and restrictions (on price, materials, whatever), so that helped too. Watching old Games and seeing the Reapings—they always showed the Victor getting Reaped, as well as District 3's entire Reaping and the Reaping of any other major contender—helped as well. From them, for instance, she had gleaned that Districts 9 and 2 did not live as families—the former had disturbingly few adults close enough to the Reaping to even attend (half a day's travel was the mandatory minimum) and the latter, while it certainly had adults, only had those who were wealthy, who were well off; most, even, wore the symbol of a Peacekeeper. The weaker looking kids, the boys and girls who weren't nearly as physically fit as those wearing a sort of proto-Peacekeeper uniform, never looked back like kids in other districts did. There was no point—there was no one there for them, and they were really only there to fill out the crowd anyway; Districts 1 and 2 only ever had volunteers.

She knew that District 13 bordered only Districts 12 and 8, and District 8's path through was blocked in by severe nuclear radiation at the border (something that couldn't be seen on a map.)

She knew that the majority of the Games took place in a portion of District 7 deliberately made inaccessible.

She knew that magic did not exist in this world, or if it did its users were a hell of a lot better at hiding than magical Britain had been. She knew that the Capitol had made District 6 as large as it had because most of the land there was unusable; it had taken several years to put together, but it was clear that most attacks on the Capitol during the Dark Days had come from the north.

She knew so much, but for years and years and years she didn't know, couldn't know, how her friends were doing—if any were even alive.

When she was ten years old, during the Reaping for the 96th Hunger Games, Hermione finally got her wish.

There—barely on screen and just outside of the pens for of-age girls—Luna Lovegood stood, just as much herself as she had always been.

Hermione could breathe easier; she wasn't alone, and if her predictions were correct, the time to meet back up with the others was fast approaching.


	12. District 2: 97 ADD

** DISTRICT 2**

** 97 ADD**

Roman Lare was born to Romulus and Rhea Lare on October 31st, 86 ADD. He was a fat, screaming baby and his parents were overjoyed to have him. Here, his mother and father thought, was their chance to experience the glory that had been so rudely snatched away from them. At only 19 they'd both decided not to wait another minute: if they couldn't compete themselves there was no reason not to do so vicariously through a strong and healthy child.

In District 2 the Peacekeeer Settlement—which lived in and around the Nut and were the best-off of the Settlements—had only two schools: the Girl's Training Academy and the Boy's Training Academy. In there every batch of children would be separated based on physical prowess and trained until they couldn't anymore. There were no classrooms, only large exercise rooms with small alcoves along one wall containing the necessary beds and storage space. There were no textbooks: lessons were screamed at you while jumped, ran, and punched. Progressing up or down a grade was entirely dependent on one's ability to fight; whether or not they could read having been deemed to be not nearly as important as their ability to stab.

Ron, for all that he didn't necessarily want to, prospered. The physical stuff was hard, of course—he'd never worked so much in his prior life, and he was sure there were some days where it was only his sheer will that kept him alive. But... it was also...

He was the top scorer in literally every non-physical exam, despite his fighting prowess promoting him up three grades. He was also insanely popular: his parents were well regarded themselves, and his willingness to talk to those 'lesser' than him (otherwise known as those who couldn't hit a bullseye with any weapon blindfolded) made him _the _man. His past life served him well, giving him the intelligence, maturity, and drive to succeed, and so that was what he did.

By ten there was no question that when he was 18 he would get his nomination, an honor which was only possible for the top five of the highest grade and which was actually given through a vote encompassing every resident of that gender's academy.

But, given Harry's luck (which was, at best, mercurial), Ron knew he needed the ability to volunteer before then.

"Sir?" He said, knocking on the door of Mars's office, the winner of the 54th Games and school principal.

"Ah, Roman! What can I do for you?"

"I have a question, sir." Ron said. "As I've been watching the Games—"

"Good one, too, isn't it?" Mars interjected. "I like the swamp layout."

"Yes," Ron said, "I honestly prefer it to last year's—the mountain was cool, but this one seems to be allowing a lot more variation in deaths."

Mars laughed.

"But as I was watching I thought... do you know that the last time District 2 had a victor younger than 18 was in the 36th Hunger Games?"

Mars's eyebrows knit together. "Really?"

"Yes, I double checked."

"...and you want to be the next?"

"Yessir."

"How young?"

"I don't know." Ron said. He glanced out the window. It wasn't really a window—a window implied an outside—but it was close enough, with glass in it and everything, and it showed the exercise rooms below where he and the other boys fought, slept, and lived. "I was thinking... I'd ask your opinion about that."

Mars huffed, then pulled out a cigar. Lighting it, he followed Roman's gaze to the kids below. The current games were being projected on a screen on one side of the closest room, and most of the boys sat enraptured as a girl from District 4 stabbed the boy from the same district in the back. Bad move that, Roman thought—you were supposed to wait as long as possible before going after your own district.

"I'll have them step up your training." Mars said. "We'll promote you another age group and see how that goes, and then another if you can keep up. If you can win most fights against the eighteen-year-olds then I'll let ya volunteer whenever you like, how's that?"

Roman grinned. "Perfect."

The screen suddenly shifted, snapping to the boy from District 8 being gutted by the girl from District 2 while the girl from District 1 stabbed her in the back.

"May the odds be in your favor, eh?" Mars grinned, puffing on his cigar.

Roman grinned. "I'll win even if the odds aren't." And he would, really—it wasn't his fault that his and Mars' definitions of victory happened to be different.


	13. District 1: 98 ADD

** DISTRICT 1**

** 98 ADD**

While Ginny's new home (or at least the section of it she was born in) was best known for its jewelry—as evidenced by the pictures of gems on every textbook, if nothing else—Ginny hadn't been drawn to that, or any of the other consumer products the District spent most of its time and resources on. It was almost sacrilegious not to be—she'd been born in the upper class, and her father was a jeweler for President Snow himself—but she simply hadn't cared about designing stunning necklaces, or even helping the Capitol decide what should be produced in every other district as her mother's family did. She had, if it was possible, even less of an interest in the 'raw materials' portion of the District, the portion which mined for gems and made Presidential Wine, a right it had fought for and won a mere two years into former President Snow's term.

No, Ginny had cared only about the television.

Or so her parents thought.

They'd named her Tourmaline, because of course they had, and been stunned when she'd wanted to audition for the tv shows and movies that were produced within District 1 borders to entertain the Capitol's masses. Eventually they'd decided that of course she did, she was a star, and they had (after some time) fully supported her endeavor. Tourmaline—or as she was better known, Malie—had appeared in a major production for the first time at age four, and by eleven she was a Capitol darling and had even gone on two tours to the shining city itself.

It was as if Malie could do no wrong—she glimmered! She shone! She was everyone's favorite little girl!

So, naturally, the Capitol had breathed a sigh of relief when their sweet jewel of District 1 wasn't made tribute during her very first Reaping, despite the utter absurdity of a world in which she would be; District 1 had had a Volunteer for both genders every year since the Games first started! The very idea that she—

Of course, unlike them she knew that she would one day volunteer. One day, when the radio reported that first 12 and then 11 then 10, 9, 8 and so on had a tribute that was her age she would jump forward the very second the randomly selected tribute's name was called, would shout out the phrase before the older girls (who would, at this point, be literally stabbing at each other in their fight to make it on stage) even realized she was a threat, and ride her fame to sponsorship after sponsorship until they all figured out how, exactly, to start a rebellion when stuck in a miles-wide arena.

But that was later.

The 98th Hunger Games had the normal mix of ages, so she had at least one more year to go.

And then there was the second reason she became a star, which had turned out far better than she'd ever dared hope.

Who knew that Draco, of all people, would have been the only one of them born in the Capitol? It was he who had managed to figure out that Death (because, as Harry put it, the being was an ass) had sent them all to different Districts, and it was he—the grand-nephew of the current President—who had managed to find a way to contact her, who had had her perform a live play on his tenth birthday and let them see each other in person, truly talk to each other in person.

Ginny still wasn't sure how he'd pulled that off.

Regardless, so far (as far as she could tell) everything was still going to plan.

In one year, or two, or even all thirteen of them—or near enough, anyway—would be back together again, and then the real fun would begin.


	14. The Capitol: 99 ADD

** THE CAPITOL**

** 99 ADD**

The less said about Draco's feelings when he realized he had been born, once again, into _the _place of privilege, the better. Being born in the Capitol was bad enough—their use of slaves made their heartlessness clear before Draco could even speak—but no, as well as that he also had to be the grandnephew of "President" Varus Gaius, and his only surviving descendent to boot; Draco's grandfather had already died of cancer, and his mother during childbirth.

There wasn't a moment in his childhood where he wasn't doted on, not a single desire that went unfulfilled, not a single thing he did without fifty eyes on him.

And if that weren't bad enough he was named Domitian.

At least (and thank Merlin there was an at least) he knew that the other twelve really had arrived. He hadn't been sure at first—he'd developed an interest in people watching for the first couple years of his life which was laughingly enabled by his nannies—but finally, when he was four, a movie came out about an alien invasion, and right there on the very first poster he saw for it stood Ginny—apparently acting as the daughter of the main character.

He'd moved fast, after that; spent time reasoning through what was likely to happen given Death's words before their rebirth, popularized Ginny's movies so that it was that much easier to have her come over as entertainment for one of his birthdays, became a beloved media sensation himself and one that was well-respected despite his young age.

All his work was clearly beneficial when his great uncle had begun introducing him to his closest allies, using the right to meet his grandnephew as a sign of status and trust which quickly had prominent adults acting like his own personal avoxes on the off-chance that if they didn't he might ruin them.

(That part, he would admit only to himself, was kind of fun.)

Several days after the 99th Games had ended Domitian was called to his grand uncle's side.

Domitian's tutoring lessons had been canceled for the evening, and instead one of the president's private hover crafts picked him up at around five in the afternoon.

"Granduncle!" Domitian said, grinning as he was ushered into the President's sitting room. "I didn't know that I'd get to see you today."

"Yes, my boy." Granduncle said (a habit of his which finally caused Domitian to realize why Harry had so disliked when Dumbledore had done the same), "I'd like you to meet someone." He turned, gesturing to the other person in the room who Domitian had (according to the ever-odd traditions of the Capitol) ignored until now.

"Hello." The man said. "My name is Tercel Thrax."

"Ah." Domitian said in recognition. "You're the new game master." Thrax had already, Domitian knew, run a grand total of three games, all of which were far more popular than his predecessor's—a man named Pontius Aurelia—had ever been. It was a bit funny that he'd had to introduce himself according to social custom, but then in this situation Domitian _was _his superior.

"And this," Granduncle introduced taking the position of superior to them both, "is my grandnephew Domitian."

"It is truly a pleasure." Thrax said. Domitian was sure it was—being given access to him was a sign that the president probably wouldn't kill you anytime soon and might actually like you, a hard level to reach.

"I enjoyed the games." Domitian said, for lack of any other subject to discuss. "I'm glad you're not going the Venus route." That was a bit of a wry comment, honestly, and not one Domitian felt entirely comfortable making, but he knew it would land well—everybody had been disappointed when the former game master had thought making the arena mimic Venus had been a good idea and the viewers had been forced to watch contestants kill each other in full boy suits and helmets—the air being too toxic for anything else.

Granduncle and Thrax both laughed, though the latter's was a bit more strained—well, that wasn't a surprise, really. It wasn't as if anyone actually thought Pontius committed suicide.

"Actually," Granduncle said, "it was that which I wished for you to talk about. We have begun preparations for the Centennial Games, and I was wondering if there was anything in particular you wished to see."

For all the mysteries of this world, one thing Domitian was oddly certain of was that his Granduncle's love for him was real. Domitian, for his part, was probably just about the closest thing to a perfect grandnephew the man could get: despite his upbringing he was smart, unspoilt, apparently idolized the man, and incredibly polite for all that he made it clear to his granduncle that he could see the way the world actually worked too.

So he knew—and Thrax likely suspected—that his Granduncle really was asking in earnest. To a point.

The question was, what _did_ he want? He had to pick something, and it had to be something feasible that both men could appreciate and yet not so obvious that it wasn't already being done anyway. And, preferably, it also had to help with his other goal—getting his fellows together for as long as possible before the rebellion was spotted.

"It might be a bit difficult to manage," Draco said at last, "but what if you had eight tributes from every district? One for each age. You could even guarantee that all of one age will be allowed to live at the end of the Games, to encourage them to work in large alliances—the only ones we regularly see are with districts 1, 2, and 4, and those tend to be fairly small and short lived."

Thrax sat back in thought. This wouldn't be an impossible complication, Domitian knew, and it also harkened back to the 50th Games, when they'd had twice as many competitors. "I think..." the new game master said finally, "that that is a very good idea. President Gaius?"

The man smiled. "I quite like it myself. A masterful salute to the one hundred years of peace the Games have gifted us."

"Yes," Crane said, "I'll start preparations for that immediately." He had an undertone of relief, now, no doubt happy that Domitian's suggestion was one that he'd have no problem following.

Small talk ensued—conversations, primarily, about how hard everyone was working to ensure the success of these games, and idle chitchat over who was likely to sponsor big this year. Domitian mostly stayed out of the conversation, listening attentively but making no move to put the spotlight on himself, and soon it was time for the game master to make his goodbyes.

"That was a well thought out proposal." His grand uncle said as the door closed behind Thrax. "It'll be an interesting Game to watch, certainly."

"I think I'll root for the 13 year-olds." Domitian said. "Might as well support my own team, right?"


	15. District 12: The Reaping

**DISTRICT 12**

**Fred & George : Sean & Conor**

**The Reaping**

The First Centennial Censure began with a bang.

The Reaping itself would not, as usual, be held until May, but on January 1st the Capitol released its first promotions about the event.

By Heron's Victory Tour—the District 1 tribute had had no problem adjusting to his new life of fame and stardom— all of the details (each more horrifying than the last) had been released.

Some parts, Conor supposed, were good.

There would not be separate male and female tributes.

Up to twelve of the tributes would be allowed to live.

That was about it.

The bad news was a bit more lengthy: each District would be forced to give up eight tributes, one of each age from eleven to eighteen.

As if that weren't bad enough, Game Master Thrax apparently _really_ wanted to harken back to every previous Quarter Quell, so on top of being the largest Games to date (to evoke the 50th) the Centennial Censure would also split the Victors into teams with the oldest being allowed to choose one age group first and so on (and then circling back until all age groups had been selected), and only if their group won would they be allowed to live (as a nice reminder of the 75th.)

And _then_, because of course the First Quarter Quell must be mimicked too, there was the requirement that each and every district had to send up at least one volunteer; if they didn't tesserae portions would be halved for three months in retribution.

And the worst part was that both Conor and Sean knew that this was the absolute best Quell for getting as much of the team as possible together, the best Quell for beginning the end to this farce of a regime. They had always known, too, that there was no chance they'd both go up—a fact which made their parents happy but them more than a little upset.

Instead, they had decided, whoever wasn't selected would run into the woods as fast as his little legs could carry him, straight to the land-formerly-known-as-District-13. Possible allies could never be ignored, after all.

Except now the game had changed. Now they weren't just waiting for one of them to inevitably be selected (it wasn't as if either were skimping on tesserae portions, either) but rather them literally _wanting_ to participate in this Game instead of any of the others.

So, they'd both decided to give District 12 its sorely needed volunteer.

But only one of them could volunteer.

And both agreed that volunteering, compared to running around in the woods (a habit that both of them had regularly undertaken since they were three) was what they wanted to do.

So, as might be expected, they were now in the middle of a months-long argument over who got the right.

"Rock-paper-scissors?" Conor offered.

Sean frowned. "We always chose the same thing."

"I could flip a coin?" Sean asked.

"You'd weight it!" Conor protested. "_I'll _flip the coin.

"You'd weight it!" Sean protested. Then, "whoever can do it fastest?"

None of these suggestions were new ones, but after weeks and weeks of rehashing this conversation at this point they were debating just to debate.

"What a stupid suggestion!" Conor jeered, apparently having completely forgotten that he had been the first to bring it up in January. "Fist fight?"

"No point in weakening either of us." Sean said. "Talk about stupid suggestions." He'd first offered it himself in February, but that was irrelevant.

There were only two more days until the Reaping, and they were _still_ no closer to finding a solution.

"The handsomer brother should volunteer!" Sean said.

"Exactly!" Conor agreed. "Me!"

They were in the woods now, actually. It was more peaceful there, and the air was far preferable to what they were used to in the mines, for all that both of them were kept far away from the worst parts of the mines, where only the oldest of the workers actually operated.

"Wait." Sean said, coming to a stop beside some katniss plants that lined the edge of the water. "Wait." He began to smile. It was a slow thing, but as it spread across his brother's face Conor grew more and more worried. "Do you know what the main difference between us is?"

Conor frowned.

"You've been alive for longer."

"So?"

"_So_, you know more than me. I mean, you've told me stuff, but that's not the same as actually experiencing it, is it? And you're the one that has more experience being on the run, the one that knows better than I do what it's like to help run an insurrection.

Your experience, Forge my boy, is literally more useful if you're not the one that volunteers."

"That's a stupid argument", Conor snapped, "and you know it."

"But it has a hell of a lot more merit than any of our other suggestions."

"So? It's still useless!"

"Look, you know that we can both argue about this until we're blue in the face, but at the end of the day my suggestion, regardless of whether or not it happens to benefit me, is the best one we've got. If you come up with a better one, then great, but until then I win and I get to volunteer, okay?"

"They're all expecting me!" Conor said, desperate.

"And I'll get to see Alicia." Sean pointed out. "I mean, I know you miss Angelina, but there's a difference between consensual long-distance and death."

"Low blow." Conor grunted.

"You're the one that made me do it." Sean said. Then he grinned. "Don't worry, I'll give Angelina _all_ my love too."

"Keep your hands off my wife!" Conor snapped, tackling his brother.

"See if I do!" Sean said, fighting back. "One look at me and she'll realize I'm far handsomer than you ever were, and she'll be all over me like that!"

"As if!" Conor laughed. "You're a brute! I'm refined masculinity!"

"Refined masculinity?"

"Sure, why not?"

Both were gasping in laughter by that point, but Conor really wanted to win one argument that day, so without a second's hesitation he shoved his brother into the lake.

"Ha!"

"I still won the war!" Sean said, trying desperately to get his balance on the slippery surface.

"In your dreams, maybe!"

"Oh, in my dreams I win so much more than a war!"


	16. District 11: The Reaping

**DISTRICT 11**

**Neville : Antwan**

**The Reaping**

Antwan was the dictionary definition of a good big brother. He protected, he instructed, he loved, he made damn well sure that his siblings—all six of them—lived the best lives possible.

They always cried on the way to the Reaping, sobbed uncontrollably as he and Pistil lined up with the rest of the of-age kids.

And the Centennial Censure, more than any previous Games, was meant to be a spectacle.

After the standard "the Capitol is so kind and giving and generous and this is a completely reasonable punishment" video, therefore, a new step was added:

Watching the other Reapings.

District 12 went first.

The eleven-year-old was a waif of a boy names Taber. Honestly, if Antwan hadn't been explicitly told he was eleven, he would have sworn Taber was no older than eight.

Not a great start.

The first twelve-year-old, on the other hand, was a large blocky girl named Mada. She was, as it turned out, an orphan—the District residents made appropriate noises, sure, but they were also clearly less put-off than they had been with Taber.

And then came the thirteen-year-olds.

"...will be... Frank—"

"I volunteer as tribute!" A boy shouted out, interrupting the District 12 escort, Fuzzy Glow, before she finished reading off the third name.

The crowd, predictably, gasped.

"I volunteer!" The boy repeated.

"Oh!" Fuzzy Glow said, surprised. "So early! Well then, how about you come up here and tell everybody your name?"

"I'm Sean Kint." The boy—oh god, that was George—said, coming to a stop at the very top of the stairs.

"Lovely! What a... fascinating name!" Fuzzy said. Her comments about Taber' and Mada's names had been much the same, actually. "And why did you choose to volunteer?"

"Well, I figured somewhat had to." Sean said. "And then I figured why not me? Actually, my brother—his name's Conor, he's over there—and I wrestled for it."

Fuzzy giggled and the cameras panned over to the identical boy who was standing next to the place Sean had recently vacated.

"Oh, your twin, then?"

"Yes ma'am." Sean said. "He's older, technically, but then I won the wrestling match."

Conor made a face. Fuzzy Glow giggled.

Antwan stopped paying attention.

Fred was here. Fred was alive. Fred was Sean or Conor, and one of them had just volunteered. Which meant... he had to too.

12's fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen-year-olds were all incredibly weak looking. 12's seventeen and eighteen-year-olds looked a bit better, but not by much. None were volunteers.

After a few closing remarks from Fuzzy—something about having a good feeling, and an encouraging message for the Capitol watchers back in her home, and the ever-repeated phrase about odds—it was Glitter Odair's turn.

"Hello, hello, hello, welcome to District 11's one hundredth Reaping! It's so lovely to be here on this fine, sunny day—perfect weather for such a momentous occasion. It was absolutely wonderful to see my coworker at work, and I'd like to take the time to thank Tercel Thrax for the amazing addition that he Games.

Now, it is time to begin with the youngest of our competitors: our eleven-year-old tribute will be... Taneka Fer! Come on up, Taneka! Oh, do you have something to say to the people?"

"My-my birthday was two days ago!" Taneka sobbed.

"Oh, happy birthday, then! Aren't you so lucky to be able to take part in something as amazing as the Centennial Censure!" Taneka did not seem to think she was lucky.

"Up next, our twelve-year-old tribute! Who will it be... Shanice Vers!"

Shanice was, if anything, coping less well than Taneka.

"And for our thirteen-year-old... Deon Baker! Deon, will you—"

"I volunteer!" Antwan shouted. He felt ill. Behind him he could hear his youngest sister, only four years old, scream.

"Ah! And we have our own volunteer! Please come up to the front!"

Antwan slowly made his way forward. At least, he thought (because positive thinking was always important), it would be easy to explain his decision: Deon was in his class, and the poor boy had had an accident five years before and lost his left leg. Unfortunately, nothing but straight-up death kept a person from being selected as tribute, so up until Antwan had volunteered Deon had looked as if he'd been not only given a death sentence, but that he'd been given a particularly long and painful one too—the last handicapped boy to enter the games had been used as target practice by the Careers, and they hadn't bothered to make it quick either.

He explained this, in much fewer words and in far less detail, to Glitter.

"Ah, lovely!" Glitter said. "What a kind thing to do, to give District 11 a greater chance of earning a victor!"

"Yes." Antwan said, flat-faced. "Because that is what is important."


	17. District 10: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 10**

** Luna : Luna**

** The Reaping**

Luna hummed a tune from her childhood slightly off key as she and all the other thirteen-year-olds crowded into their pen. People gave her odd looks, but it wouldn't matter soon anyway, and she'd never been completely comfortable with the oppressive grief of the day, no matter how well deserved it was..

"God, I'm so worried." Nadia muttered next to her. She pulled on her hair, a nervous tic that usually came out just before a school exam. She and Nadia shared a birthday, so Nadia had always made a habit of hanging out with the little girl who couldn't help but be abnormal.

"Don't be." Luna told her. "I'm volunteering."

Nadia jerked to stare at her. "Why would you do that?!"

"To keep with the pattern, of course."

Nadia pulled her hair again. "You are a very odd sort of person, you know." She said, instead of arguing.

Luna nodded, then went back to humming. She was almost done with the melody, and anyway most of the kids were in their pens already; it wouldn't be long.

The movie played.

Nadia shuddered beside her, but Luna wanted to roll her eyes: the propaganda piece was so over-the-top it dared you to take it seriously. Mind, it wasn't as if anyone around her did: they didn't rebel not due to any sense of guilt but because of the Capital's power and military might.

The District 12 tributes were chosen. There was Fred and George—that, Luna would admit, she had not foreseen. Still, it was nice that they got another thirteen years together, and Alicia would likely be thrilled too.

Then District 11. Neville looked… well, he looked like he was forcing himself to do what he was supposed to. She supposed he'd grown to close to his family; that wasn't an issue she had, being raised by her aunt and uncle who had enough kids of their own to worry about, but she couldn't imagine the emotional pain of abandoning one's family without being able to provide a reason they'd understand.

Then District 10's eleven-year-old was selected—a volunteer, surprisingly, when one boy's twin sister was chosen, and he decided to play hero. That had become more and more popular since the 74th reaping, but most still stayed silent when their sibling's name was pulled. Ahanu, actually, looked like he was very much regretting the choice the second he made it.

Then District 10's twelve-year-old. No heroics this time, just many tears.

Then it was time for the thirteen-year-olds. "..Jo Tyre please come to the stage?"

Jo, a massive brute of a boy, huffed in disappointment before beginning to shuffle forward.

Before he could get very far, however, it was Luna's turn.

"I volunteer." She said.

The escort—she hadn't bothered listening to the man's name—blinked.

"Oh, our third thirteen-year-old volunteer! What a lovely pattern!" He gushed, ushering her on stage. "And what is your name?"

"Luna." She said.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl! And why have you chosen to volunteer this day? Especially given that Jo—smile at the camera, Jo—Jo is a good, strong candidate himself?"

"Patterns are very important, you know." She said.

"Well, yes, of course, but why _you_?"

"I feel like thirteen is a good age to start, don't you agree?"

"...what?"

"I mean, fourteen would have been preferable—its own sort of repetition, you know, at least for me—but thirteen is good, too. It's a prime number, after all."

The escort seemed at a loss. Eventually he abandoned the effort—it wasn't his job to make all his tributes likeable, when all was said and done, only whoever had a higher chance of winning, and he really couldn't see a bunch of thirteen year-olds taking on seventeen- and eighteen- year-olds and living to tell the tale, so at the end of the day the girl was frivolous, and talking to her an afterthought.

He turned to the bowl of fourteen-year-olds and went to select the next candidate.


	18. District 9: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 9**

** Katie : Katie**

** The Reaping**

The Reaping was held in the Milling Settlement Area, nearest to the train tracks that ran well below the land Katie had been born in. The pens for the Reaping were placed immediately to the right of the main train station, the place having been cleared of its usual shipping containers and cranes specifically for the event.

Unlike most other Reapings, few adults attended this one in person—the number that actually lived close enough for it to be feasible were far outnumbered by the children who stayed in the area year-round for school.

Generally, therefore, the Reaping at District 9 was a very quiet, sedated affair. Unlike many other places, there was no crying, no screaming, no shouts of "No! Not my son!" Instead the children were instructed by their teachers to be stoic, to be unflinching when they or their friends were chosen.

"This is a time of celebration!" They were told, "And if you can't be happy, be nothing at all."

According to the commentary during the Tribute Parade, their utter silence and blank faces were incredibly disconcerting to the residents of the Capital, but that just made the children of the Grain District all the more determined not to let a flash of feeling appear even momentarily in front of the all-seeing eyes of the cameras.

Their escort, a woman in a dress so poofy it looked as if she were wearing a balloon of taffeta and with a name as absurd as Glorious Daydream, outright hated them for it, and was never quite able to hide it no matter how many cameras were pointed on her.

After District 12 (seeing the twins had nearly made Katie cheer aloud, and it was all she could do to keep from reacting when Conor had winked at the camera) had named all their tributes, and then Districts 11 and 10 had done the same (and what a rush they were, too, to see Neville and Luna there plain as day) and then it was District 9's turn.

"...and of course, I do hope that our district provides an excellent batch of teammates this year. It will be so good to see the normally antagonistic districts working together arm in arm! Now, let's begin with the youngest of our competitors... Werner Berin!"

Werner Berin shuffled to the stage, expressionless.

Glorious Daydream attempted, in vain, to get him to give more than one-word answers.

"Alright, let's move on, and please give a round of applause to our twelve-year-old tribute, Astrid Cress!"

Silence, and a blank-faced girl making her way to the front to stand next to Werner.

Glorious moved on without even trying to talk to her. "For the thirteen-year-olds, it will be... Cass Minnow!"

"I volunteer." Katie said, breaking the silence. Still, no one around her moved. She loved them for that, loved them for their little show of rebellion by complying with their instructions all too well, and loved them for how she knew that none of them would have a thing to say to the interviewers that were about to descend to learn anything and everything they could about her.

"And we have our volunteer! Four for four on thirteen-year-old volunteers, how exciting!" Glorious gushed. "Now, why have you chosen to volunteer, sweetheart? Were you perhaps motivated by Sean, Antwan, and Luna?"

"Sure." Katie said.

"Sure?" Glorious asked, stunned. Katie didn't respond. "Well, why did you volunteer, then?"

"Needed a volunteer, didn't we?" Katie said.

Glorious didn't seem particularly enthused about that answer either. "I suppose that _is _a reason. And what is your name, dear?"

"Katie."

"And your last name?"

"Mark."

"Alright, and our age thirteen tribute is Katie Mark!"

No applause.

Glorious looked like she really, really, really hated being assigned District 9. Katie couldn't really blame her—the only district considered worse was District 12. Most of the time the Districts were ranked by number of victors—1 had 20 to 11's 6, for instance—but District 9, with its 4 victors, should have been tied with Districts 5 and 6, not clearly below them. Not only that, but up until two years ago Glorious had actually been District 8's escort (which had had 5 total victors), so her bump down to 9 was very, very noticeable.

Oh well. Katie wasn't quite ready to sympathize with a woman who wore a wig made out of iridescent color changing wire.

"—may the odds be ever in your favor!" Glorious shouted, having finally dragged all 8 of the kids on stage.

The lead cameraman made a sign and she slumped, exhausted. "Oh, how I hate this place." She said. "I need a smoke and some caviar, ASAP."

Katie, finally, allowed herself to smile a bit. No one here knew it—no one even suspected—but if she and her friends got their way, this spectacle would never happen again.

All the children in front of her had to do was wait.


	19. District 8: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 8**

** Alicia : Verona**

** The Reaping**

Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was—

"Oh my god!" A boy shouted next to her.

Alicia snapped back to the present.

Putnam Tomas—a twelve-year-old who Alicia only vaguely recognized as the son of the current governor—had just been chosen.

"Volunteer! Volunteer, damn it!" The governor's wife was screaming, sobbing, begging. The Peacekeepers were holding her back from actually jumping into the twelve-year-old pen, but that didn't stop her from grabbing for someone—anyone—wildly, trying in desperation to save her only son.

The twelve-year-olds shifted out of reach, but none spoke up.

"Please, please, please!" She screamed. "Volunteer! Please!"

Putnam had made his way to the front by that point. He was crying himself, red-faced and nearly inconsolable in his terror. The eleven year-old—Anna didn't recognize him—was even trying to get him to calm down, to take deep breaths, and the escort had had to bring in a medic to try to keep the child from fainting, and still he cried.

"We're rich!" His mother screamed. "We've eaten with citizens! He's not disposable! Choose someone else! Choose an orphan or something—someone useless!"

That, Alicia thought, wouldn't win her any brownie points with the people she interacted with on a daily basis.

More importantly, Fred was alive. Fred was alive. Fred was—

Again her internal celebration was cut off by the woman's screaming. She was trying to volunteer herself in her son's place, this time, which wasn't working any better than any of her earlier ploys had, and in the meantime Putnam had actually been sedated with something which, though it allowed him to remain upright, also had him swaying in place with an odd smile plastered over his face.

"Oh my god!" Lyric Royal, their escort, finally screeched. "Would someone shut her up?!" 

One of the peacekeepers stepped forward and jabbed her in the arm with something. She was out like a light.

Alicia idly wondered—in the part of her mind which wasn't solely dedicated to the knowledge that her dead boyfriend wasn't so dead anymore—where the governor was. He certainly hadn't been saying anything while his wife and son had the strongest reaction to a Reaping in recent history.

"Now, back to business." Lyric said, apparently more than happy to ignore that the boy standing next to him seemed to be stunned that he had fingers and confused about how they worked. "Our thirteen-year-old will be—"

"I volunteer as tribute!" Alicia shouted.

Lyric paused from where he was unfolding the piece of paper. "What?"

"I volunteer as tribute."

"Are you... are you twelve or thirteen?" He asked, eying Putnam (who was now trying to take off one of his shoes, though he'd clearly forgotten how.)

"Thirteen." She said. "Like the other volunteers." Like Fred.

Lyric looked like he would have preferred if she was twelve, but brought her up stage and asked her name and reason for volunteering anyway.

"My name is Verona Brown, and I volunteered because... because I found the boy from District 12 cute, I guess." Merlin, she hoped the boy who volunteered was Fred. If George had volunteered instead she might kill him.

Lyric laughed. "Young love! And it might even work out, too—what with you being on the same team this year, and all!"

"Exactly." Alicia flashed a smile, feeling more like herself than she had in ages. "Plus I know the governor has a thirteen-year-old niece. No need to add oil to the flames, right?"

Lyric grinned. "Oh, I like you! And I'm sure our viewers at home do too! Remember to sponsor Verona Brown from District 8 this year—I'm sure you won't regret it!"

Alicia smiled.

Verona smiled.

She smiled, more at peace than she had been before she was born on this god-forsaken rock.

And soon, very, very soon. She would be happier than she'd ever been before too.


	20. District 7: The Reaping

**DISTRICT 7**

**Oliver : Alban**

**The Reaping**

The second Alban saw the twins he knew he'd have to volunteer. Kind of stupidly, he'd hoped the spectacle was just something that would happen; something that would leave him and the rest of them alone until much, much later.

Of course, he'd tied his luck with Harry's, and this was the boy who had, over the course of their time together, managed to become the youngest seeker ever, defeated a troll, did something (he'd never quite figured out what) to get rid of Quirrell, got infamous for his ability to talk to snakes, defeated Slytherin's monster, and did something (he'd never quite figured out what) to get rid of Lockhart.

And that wasn't even mentioning what had happened after Oliver graduated.

So, in hindsight, it was obvious what would happen, and his refusal to acknowledge it just meant that he had less time to say goodbye.

This was hammered home when the screen showed Fred and George. As if that weren't clear enough, there was Neville from District 11, Luna from District 10, Katie from District 9, and Alicia from District 8.

So, when Poppy Porter (District 7's current escort) began prattling her own 'thanks to the Capitol speech' Oliver knew what he had to do.

He felt sick.

He couldn't swallow, could barely breath.

He palms felt sweaty, but his mouth was completely dry.

He turned, looking back past the twelve and eleven-year-olds to see his mother and father standing there, locked together in a frightful gripped as they hoped desperately that he wasn't picked.

They saw him looking and smiled, trying to seem more hopeful than they actually were.

Alban didn't smile back.

He watched, teary-eyed, as they slowly realized what he meant to do. As they tried desperately to understand why, and failed utterly at even coming close.

As they began to cry well before even the twelve-year-old was selected, already mourning his inexplicable decision and the result that would doubtless come from it.

And then he turned back around and, as the escort called out for any thirteen-year-old volunteers, he raised his hand.

After this, he knew, would come his perhaps last time to spend with his parents. He would not be able to explain his decision to them, so he'd already decided not to try. Instead he would hug them, and thank them, and help them cope.

And, because he didn't want them to give up entirely, he would give them one more message:

Never count out 13.


	21. District 6: The Reaping

**DISTRICT 6**

**Angelina : Anika**

**The Reaping**

Anika had known what was going to happen well before the Reaping. The first promotion for the Centennial Censure had just sealed the deal: this was going to be the DA's Games.

Which, of course, meant she had to get busy.

The very first thing she did was spread the word: she was volunteering for the thirteen year-olds, and no other child of her age needed to worry. When it came time to collect tesserae she stood at the front of the line that year telling each and every person in her class (or of similar age) to take out as much as they liked.

Some didn't trust her. Some did. Regardless, a few less would be going hungry.

Step 2: Preparation.

She wasn't as worried about the fighting aspect of it—she'd trained for that for a while already, and honestly she didn't know whether they'd even end up in the arena: the DA would likely just have to listen to Death (if it was feeling chatty) over when the best time to instigate the rebellion was.

Of course, that meant she still had to figure out how to institute a revolutionary force here.

She couldn't do much about the other districts—not yet, at least—but District 6 was her home, and at least she could do some things in her own neighborhood.

Anika remembered from her first life's history lessons that there were only five base elements to fester a revolution: economic strain, alienation among the elites, widespread anger at injustice, a shared narrative of resistance, and sufficient resources to succeed.

The first three Panem more than qualified for.

The fifth Anika was less sure of, but Death seemed fairly certain that they were capable.

And the need for the fourth was satisfied by one main factor: District 13.

Yes, yes, District 13 had lost. It had been bombed into nothingness and no one had (officially or unofficially) heard a peep from it since.

But that didn't dampen the _idea_ of it, the idea of the rebellious district that nearly brought the Capitol to its knees.

To this day '13' was a number which, while never explained for fear of walls with eyes, everyone in District 6 knew the meaning of—don't abandon hope, the resistance will rise again, never count 13 out.

Anika decided to use the remaining time she had to ramp up that pressure.

It took little effort to convince her drug-mule fellows to steal a few cannisters of spray paint and begin to draw numbers everywhere (she didn't care which, she'd told them, but somehow 13 seemed to appear more than any other.) It wasn't a sign of rebellion that was used before, but then it was different, and things that were different were always watched carefully. She wasn't silent on the drug front itself, either—"Get ready." She'd told every drug dealer.

In District 6 dealing with minimal information was the norm, so she saw no reason to explain more than that.

Without instruction they did exactly as she wanted—they took stock of the numbers appearing everywhere, took stock of Anika and the Old Man and every other bookie in the area slowly shifting to trying to drain any peacekeepers that were willing to gamble dry, even if it meant operating at a loss in other markets, took stock of the sudden drive in black markets (who Anika had given the same message to) to boost production more than they ever had before.

And the drug dealers, nearly as one, started lowering the amounts of morph and coke and LSD and every other drug they sold. Instead they began using their resources—their secret labs, their hidden transport, their everything—to stockpile medicinal drugs, and to help some of the more useful morphlings—not the Victors, they were far too gone—clean up.

District 6's more obvious underground market, the one the Peacekeepers regularly reported on and avidly kept in line, marched on as always, completely unaffected. Drugs were still distributed in pseudo-secrecy, gambling was still a key District pastime, markets of illegally obtained goods (mostly food) still set up in the exact same places it had before. Its deep underground, on the other hand—the portion of the District that Peacekeepers had been instructed to ignore, truly didn't understand, or didn't want to bother dealing with—they were ready.

It might all be for naught, of course: similar preparations had been built up and left unused before, but this district—her district—would never, ever abandon hope.

And when George (or possibly Fred, and that had been a surprise even to her, one which made her much yearned for reunion much less likely) had volunteered, and then Neville, and then Luna, and then Katie, and then Alicia, and then Oliver...

Yes, District 6 had a very good feeling about this attempt, and so did she.


	22. District 5: The Reaping

**DISTRICT 5**

**Harry : Hugo/Harry**

**The Reaping**

Death was listening in.

The being was quiet, this time, except for some intermittent high-pitched giggles, but they were still listening in.

Harry wished he could keep the bastard from doing that, but just as with Voldemort he was all too powerless.

Instead he clenched his hands into just-barely-too-tight fists and shuffled into line next to Dudley, silent as Death giggled and parents cried and Dudley bemoaned the length of time he'd be forced to stand when "everyone knew there was no way he'd be chosen!"

Harry supposed he was right—he'd always been told to volunteer in lieu of his cousin if it were necessary, and he had no desire to see what would happen should he fail to follow that command.

Not that it mattered this year anyway—he was volunteering no matter what.

When District 12's 13 year-old volunteer flashed on screen Harry didn't feel happy, or sad, or much of anything, really: Death had made no effort to hide what was coming this year.

Fred being there was far more of a shock, and Harry felt like he barely had time to process it before District 11 was flashing on screen and there Neville was, looking far more broad-shouldered and muscular than Harry remembered him being the first time the fellow Gryffindor was thirteen.

District 10 brought Luna, sweet Luna who looked much the same as always, if perhaps more tan, and District 9 had Katie, whose hair was tied back in the braid she always used during Quidditch matches—a different braid than the one she would use during practices, when she cared less.

District 8 brought Alicia who, to Harry's chagrin, looked far worse than she had the first time he'd ever met her: this Alicia (for all that she laughed and joked with her escort) seemed far harsher than he knew her to be. It was almost jarring to see the difference between her and Oliver, who had grown up in the woods of District 7: he was the healthiest of any of them so far, and seemed genuinely upset over having to leave his friends and family for all that he tried to hide it from the camera.

Finally, when the cameras switched to show the District 6 Reaping Harry caught his first glance of Angelina, who was looking as on top of things as she had been at the height of the war, when it had been her who had been organizing the supply lines for the whole of Scotland against Voldemort's forces.

And then Bless Dyvine, the escort for District 5, began speaking.

Harry watched with the rest of the district as first the eleven and then the twelve year-old were called forward uncontested. As they stood holding back tears next to the escort, she fished her hand into the third bowl on her left.

"Now, I don't want to jinx it or anything, but I think that this person doesn't need to worry!" She smiled at the camera. Harry took a deep breath, ready to call out the second the name was read. "That said, our thirteen-year old selected tribute is... Hugo Dursley!"

Harry blinked.

Dudley laughed. "You're gonna die!" He said, jeering at Harry's shocked expression. "Like anyone would volunteer for a loser like you!"

Well, shit, Harry thought, Dudley is probably right.

He made his way to the stage as the crowd fell to utter silence, waiting to see if the trend—eight districts strong so far, and with the careers nearly guaranteed to keep it up—would continue.

He stood in the spot for the thirteen year-old tribute. Still no one spoke up. Harry idly thought he was probably the only one actively happy about that—the districts likely didn't care, and the Capitol probably just liked the pattern for its novelty and wanted to see it followed through to the end.

Bless seemed almost unsure what to do. "Do we have any volunteers to take Hugo's place?" She asked. "Any at all?" She repeated, a bit desperately.

Nothing.

"Well, alright then." She said. "To the fourteen year-old, I suppose."

It wasn't until the eighteen year-old that District 5 got its volunteer, and even that only happened at the very last second, no one wanting to be _the _one to make the sacrifice that would allow the tesserae to remain the same until they absolutely, positively, no re-dos allowed, had to.

Harry just stood there, upright and without a tear in his eye, waiting patiently to be directed away from the stage.


	23. District 4: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 4**

** Percy : Garin**

** The Reaping.**

Garin volunteered to be a volunteer all the way back in July of the past year. They had six, by the Reaping, out of the eight they would have preferred, and most were the kids who'd lived in the middle of the ocean and used actual tridents to keep sharks from stealing their catches and the like.

Garin, on the other hand, had never been on the sea for longer than two months at a time.

It had taken some amount of effort, actually, to even get the Victors to agree to train him. He had none of the usual skills District 4 was known for, and he wasn't particularly athletic or even innovative when it came down to it. Percy's best strengths had always been in the mundane sort of office work that let governments keep on running,

That wasn't to say he had no skills. His personal experience—experience wrought during peace, during war, during imitations of both—gave him more than his fair share of talent in manipulation, in understanding. He had good aim, too, or at least that was what was Kalle—the oldest victor at the prime age of 40 and winner of the 78th Hunger Games—said.

"Good aim," he'd told Garin, "but your throw is shit so none of it lands."

It was the first skill, not the second, which had guaranteed him his necessary training.

Some Capitol officials had come to the district for the unveiling of a statue commemorating the 100 years of peace, and Garin (a waif of a boy, even at 13, but one with two parents in the government, constantly listening in, and one who regularly aced every test he was given) had been selected to be an example to them of one of the many good boys and girls who lived to serve the Capitol in District 4.

They had been frightfully easy to manipulate, the officials. They cooed over his hillbilly District 4 manners, laughed at his sincere-looking adoration of their mere presence, and happily went along with feeling noble and caring and wonderful when he leant into their opinion of the districts as poor, miserable places and marveled at every aspect of them.

The entire time Kalle's eyes were on him, watching, watching.

The next day his school told him to report to Kalle's house—he was a career now.

His final months in the district were spent in constant misery. Kalle had a special training regimen for each and every one of them—for the eighteen year old boy (Herve) who'd been in training since he was four and killed his abusive father, for the seventeen year old girl (Maele) who'd lost her entire family in a storm while she'd been in the hospital with appendicitis, for the fifteen year old pickpocket (Caine) who'd been the first to volunteer following the Capitol's announcement, eager to be kept out of the Peacekeepers' prisons, for his fourteen year old daughter (Iva), in training since the day she was born, for the twelve year old (Beale) who had been diagnosed as terminally ill in December and decided his life might as well mean something, and for Garin.

The sheer number of students (more than District 4 had ever had before) seemed to not affect Kalle at all.

He had them up at the crack of dawn working out (both together and apart, depending on the exercise) until they all but fainted from the effort, before spending two or three hours drilling them in everything from edible food to how to get sponsors to general traits of other districts' tributes while they ate better than they ever had before in their life.

Afternoons were for weapons training—Garin was primarily taught how to throw anything throwable by the winner of the 90th Games—and evenings were for sparring in the forest behind the Victor's Village.

By the time the Reaping came Garin genuinely couldn't remember the last time he'd read anything, even a sign, but he didn't care.

He was prepared, he was determined, and this time he was on the right side of the war.

The propaganda video flashed on screen, and Garin took a deep breath, waiting for the first district—District 12—to appear.

It was time.


	24. District 3: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 3**

** Hermione : Hermosa**

** The Reaping**

After the announcement was made District 3 didn't bother wasting any time. Two days into January every single tribute—from age 11 to 18—had already been chosen, each selected from the worst schools in the district as the strongest and brightest of the 'won't amount to anything anyway' crowd. Generally they tried to avoid that—volunteers who weren't good weren't appreciated by the Capitol—but the Centennial was too important to take such risks.

Three days later, then, they were all in training, to make sure they didn't shame the district _too much_ before they were inevitably killed.

In addition, District 3 had learned its lesson from the 75th Hunger Games, when two of their best and brightest had died on the same day—the first day—doing irreparable harm to the District's reputation.

No, this time they'd play this smart.

They had three living victors now; Serafina, who was nearing eighty and had gone mad long ago, Alanza, who'd won the 82rd Hunger Games, and Feron, who'd won the 80th. The district leaders—a group of five who were chosen as the best and brightest available—decided right off the bat that Serafina was worthless and would be saddled with the worst of the teams (11, 12, and 13), Feron's mental issues weren't going away any time soon so he should be saddled with the next worst (14 and 15), and Alanza—a fairly successful inventor in her own right who, despite being incredibly introverted and anti-social, had her own cult-following of Capitol supporters—would be assigned the only teams that actually had a chance of winning: 16, 17, and 18.

Hermosa, of course, messed that up.

The crowd didn't know what to think when she volunteered. Neither did the escort, or anyone else. District 3 rarely if ever had volunteers, and then only too keep someone smart—someone who attended PATT—someone who attended _her_ school from dying.

And then she'd volunteered.

The boy who had been supposed to volunteer—she thought his name was Blue, but she couldn't be sure—volunteered right after her, but it was too late. The District 3 rules were clear: whoever did it first was the tribute.

Stunned silence filled the air as she climbed to the stage, as she introduced herself, as she gave her reason for doing what she did as "reasoned logic" and nothing else.

The silence grew as each Victor came out to choose their groups and Serafina (old, blind Serafina who needed to be prompted three times to even say anything) chose the 11 year-old. Feron followed by choosing the 15 year-old, then Alanza went—18. It held as Serafina chose 12, Feron 16, and Alanza 17. It cemented into place, almost as quiet as District 9, when Serafina chose 14.

And then Feron (because the District had three victors, and only eight tributes) passed.

And then Alanza—Alanza, the closest thing their district had to a Capitol favorite—chose 13.

The message was clear: her mere presence, as well as that of the other 13 year-olds, made them a hell of a lot more likely to win then the day before.

The third district was not only fighting based on historical data—not only choosing which teams to bother with due to which ages were most likely to win in the past, who were objectively the most likely to win now— no, somehow the upswell of '13', of her age, of her group (Fred and George and Neville and Luna and Katie and Alicia and Oliver and Angelina and Harry and Percy—) was enough to make District 3 act in a way that was, on the face of it, irrational.

Because the string of volunteers (with the exception of five, because Potter Luck was the most dependable thing in the multiverse) should have in no way effected their chances.

Everyone thought they were thirteen, for God's sake! Thirteen years old and they were competing with teens many years their senior, teens who were (supposed to be) stronger and smarter and faster than (Panem at large) thought they could ever be.

Nearly every Victor was at least 17. Those younger could literally be counted: the single living victor who'd won at 13 was a member of District 8. She'd found herself in a rainforest and spent no time ingratiating herself into a clan of apes and had used them as a natural defense until only two others were alive, at which point she'd quickly and efficiently killed both in a massive, terrifyingly large forest fire while she stood, perfectly safe, in the middle of a lake with a sponsor-given gas mask—no face-to-face confrontation to speak of.

The next youngest were both fourteen, from 3 (Alanza, actually) and 6 (Gerik, their only surviving Victor following the morph overdose in '96 and the death of the other two in the 75th.) Both had fought in exactly one desperate physical altercation while in the Games; Alanza had relied on her brains the rest of the time, duping her competitors, while Gerik had a nearly impossible streak of luck which saw him through 90% of the Games.

Keeping with the trend there were only four surviving fifteen year-old Victors, seven sixteen-year old ones, and a grand total of 26 who had been at least seventeen—fifteen of which had been eighteen.

So yes, everything pointed to thirteen year-olds being almost as unlikely to win as twelve year-olds, who had won a total of one game in the entire history of Panem—and that victory had been almost as unexpected as Gerik's. (Who had, at one point in the game, looked between two berry bushes and decided to eat from only one of them by using a children's rhyme and therefore narrowly missed out on the absolutely gruesome death that the other berries would have provided.)

District 3 knew that.

District 3 taught statistics in their classrooms.

District 3 trained their children to endure the horrors of the Games by focusing on the math and science and psychology behind the Games.

And so, when Alanza stood there and chose 13 as one of the groups that could keep her alive?

Hermosa stared over the crowd, and the crowd stared back, each and every one more sure than ever that _something_ was changing, that _something _would never, ever be the same.

Hermione smiled.


	25. District 2: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 2**

** Ron : Roman**

** The Reaping**

Career training (or, officially, Peacekeeper training) began at four in District 2. Fourteen long years to whip children into killers, and not a moment wasted.

Roman still remembered when he'd been told to say goodbye to his parents—no loss there, they'd been so wrapped up in him becoming a tribute when they hadn't managed it that they'd never even thought to see him as his own person—and been shipped, in a bus with every other Peacekeeper-class four year-old who met the minimum standard, to the Training Academy, Boy's Section.

Their age had seemed an irrelevant factor from the beginning. The first year was all about breaking them down, and their youth was no defense to anything their teachers thought to throw at them.

Roman had nearly puked the first time a boy—only four, only four—who had been displaying subpar hygiene was forced to lick the toilet seat as punishment.

He had puked—hours after the actual event, when he was sure no one else was around to hear—the first time he found one of his classmates hanging.

That was less than a year into training.

The first year, in many ways, really was the worst. Unlike the rest they didn't get their own training gymnasiums, each strategically placed around each other in a warehouse so that someone walking on the platforms above could see multiple gyms at once. They certainly didn't get their semi-private curtained off bunks stacked against one wall of a gym, where each boy had his own bunk, his own sheets, and his own bag of necessities.

No, instead they slept huddled together outdoors, trying to make the best use out of whatever defense from the rain, snow, sleet, hail, heat, cold, animals they had been given and somehow survive a full 365 days of such treatment.

After that they were allowed inside.

The regimen was built up quickly.

After morning ablutions and during drills lessons would be held until lunch (which always took place well after they were already losing concentration from their hunger.)

After lunch was more training, this time more practical (weaponry, survival, hunting), followed by etiquette lessons and the like in the evening.

Sometimes, during holidays or when their particular team had done unusually well, they'd have contests too—shooting contests, maybe, or races, or anything else to pit them against each other in a way mildly more 'fun' than average.

And then there were the promotions, the tests they underwent every six months to assure they were performing to standard.

Too poor a score and you were kicked out. High enough and you were moved to a team with more experience, a gymnasium with harder practicals and more worthwhile instruction. There were eighteen gyms, each harder than the last, where most students took six months to be moved up, and by 6 Roman was in gym 5, and by 7 in 10. After that he moved with his group—apparently a two year age gap between him and everyone else was deemed sufficient.

Of course, then last year he had gone and run his mouth, had asked to be trained harder. He'd known, still knew, that being prepared earlier than intended was necessary, but it was still more than a shock to the system to be mercilessly tossed in with 15 year-olds the day after and the oldest group six months after that.

He was the worst in the group, of that there was never any doubt, but he was the best of his age by far.

He was ready.

And by the time of the 100th Reaping all that was left to do was hope that everyone else was too.

By the time it was District 2's turn to pull names Roman was grinning wildly.

The rest of the school was too—here, more than any year previous, was _the_ year to prove who they were, and no one could wait.


	26. District 1: The Reaping

** DISTRICT 1**

** Ginny : Tourmaline/Malie**

** The Reaping**

Malie smiled widely at the crowds of Capitol citizens that always turned up for District 1 Reapings. It was the only one they were allowed to see in person, and getting one of the one hundred spots available was always hotly contested and thoroughly enjoyed by those lucky enough to earn a spot.

Now the District 1 children were filing in, walking down a red carpet spread in their honor. Some of the children shuffled through quickly, knew they weren't the ones the Citizens wished to see.

Others, like her, lingered.

Their reasons varied.

Some, including her, were movie stars. Others were children of the most elite of District 1, the few and privileged who were given small tastes about what life as one of the Capitol was like. She supposed she was one of them, too.

The largest group, the one that only she knew she was a part of, were the prospective Victors.

District 1 was unfailingly honest about not (specifically) training recruits. There were no schools, not like in District 2, and Victors didn't personally train a select few like in District 4.

Instead every boy and girl—no matter their position, no matter their desire—was given training in how to fight using a few key weapons, on how to battle in any environment, about how to survive in any environment.

Those that had natural talent—and they had a well of those, given how healthy they were in comparison to literally any other district—were then given the opportunity to take after-school classes covering anything from martial arts to rope climbing to dance (because this totally wasn't about improving their chances in the Games.)

Truthfully, however, District 1's main competitive advantage was their relationship with the Capitol. Not a single Game in living memory had gone by without one of their volunteers getting at least one, if not many, many more sponsor gifts. They also knew how to play the game better than any other district—they accepted alliances from any who offered, kept those that did so at arm's length and constantly off balance, and used their group dynamics to kill off the majority of the competition before they even had a chance to think about how to survive wherever they ended up.

And then, after they and District 2 had killed off everyone else, it was a mere matter of using their sponsor gifts to ensure the fight was anything but fair.

Frankly, a lot of people in the district thought that the Reaping was more difficult than the Games half the time.

But then, you were supposed to die during the Games. District 1 was the only district that suffered deaths during Reapings.

Of course, that was probably intentional.

Why else would they set it up the way they did?

The runway (for that was what it was, really) ended, and Malie was quickly shuffled in with the rest of the thirteen year-olds—towards the front of the group, of course, to keep the Capitol's view unobstructed of their favorite starlet.

After the standard propaganda video came District 12.

Seeing Fred—seeing George—was nearly too much.

Actually, it was too much.

It was only years and years of acting practice that made Malie do anything more than burst wildly into tears at the sheer disbelief, the sheer love she felt in that moment.

She took a breath.

Eyes on the prize, she reminded herself.

Seeing Neville was nothing compared to seeing the twins, and she managed to get through District 11 without issue. District 10 passed much the same—the desire to react emotionally rather than the inescapable need—and Districts 9, 8, 7, and 6 did too.

District 5—Harry—was a bit more troublesome. She might have fallen out of love with him years ago, but he was still Harry, just as much her brother as any of her 'real' ones could claim to be.

District 4 broke her nearly as much as District 12 had, but for different reasons.

After the war her relationship with Percy had been strained by years of arguments, by years of disagreements, by years of battles and the complete inability to empathize with the other.

She realized, of course, that he had done what he thought was right, and that he had learned he was wrong well before the end of it all.

But there was a difference between understanding and forgiveness, and she'd never quite (no matter how much she tried) been able to do the latter.

Seeing him...

He'd had practice too, hadn't he, in how to hide his emotions? He'd admitted as much in their first life, about how in Voldemort's and even Fudge's government he'd had to hide his complete disagreement with everything everyone around him stood for and do what he could to fight back, within the system, against their actions.

His practice was insufficient.

He appeared on screen crying. He explained it away easily enough—the girl who was supposed to be the tribute was apparently his cousin—but Ginny knew him too well to not see the real reason.

Fred and George were alive, and he was just as surprised, as ridiculously happy about the unexpected event as she was.

Ginny couldn't remember District 3 appearing on screen (she barely recalled Hermione being their tribute 13), and District 2 only snapped into focus when Ron appeared on screen as Roman, a boy far larger, far more muscular and dominant than her Ron had ever managed to be.

Then it was her turn.

In District 1 volunteers were chosen by whoever could get both feet on the stage first, and after the sheer violence of the eleven and twelve year-olds (no one died, but one boy likely permanently lost control of his left arm. Both battles were won by girls—they, more than the boys, knew how to use their smaller size to their advantage), everyone was more than eager for the thirteens to show their own power.

But then, no one had even considered that she wanted to volunteer. While the others—the kids that knew from the beginning that they were each other's enemies—fought and stabbed and kicked and punched, she slipped forward unnoticed.

By the time the most violent girl in the group managed to get her first foot on stage, Malie was already placing her second on without issue.

She tuned out as the crowd went wild, as the escort went wild, as everyone went wild. She answered all of their questions automatically, glimmered as she was supposed to and never, ever forgot that in a few short hours she'd see her siblings for the first time in thirteen years.

Her smiles had never been more genuine.


	27. The Capitol: The Reaping

** THE CAPITOL**

** Draco : Domitian**

** The Reaping**

There was always a huge party at the president's house for The Reaping. It contained most of the movers and shakers of The Capitol—the only more exclusive invitation being the ability to watch District 1's Reaping in person, a right and privilege which the president controlled just as much as the party—and it was a time of drinking, and eating, and drinking, and laughing, and, for many, of choosing who to sponsor.

Domitian had made it clear months beforehand who he was rooting for, so he already knew that the thirteen year-olds would be receiving much more support than they would have otherwise.

And now all that was left (for today at least) was watching the thing go down.

Domitian grabbed a seafood hors d'oeuvre from a passing avox as the screen finally panned to show District 12's escort reading the first name: Tim.

"Feeling good about your chances?" Someone—oh, it was Flush—said next to him.

Domitian smirked. "They haven't even announced the first thirteen year-old yet."

"Hasn't stopped you from rooting for them already." Flush jibed. He was... not an awful person, Domitian supposed. Could take a joke, treated him like a human, was an actively happy man... really, if you looked past how his career had been spent tracking down and enslaving any and all 'traitors' until he'd finally been promoted enough to run the whole avox division, he was a nice fellow.

"Well, I kind of had to," Domitian said, "what with them being my age and all. Oh, but you wouldn't know how that'd feel, would you—it being so long since you could relate?"

Flush laughed, then both their eyes snapped to the screen as the escort prepared to call out the third name.

She cleared her throat and began rattling off "Frank—" only to be interrupted by a voice and face Domitian knew only too well.

"First volunteer!" Flush said, surprised. "I figured we'd have to wait until they got to the eighteen-year-olds before the poorer districts would bother."

Domitian was still enraptured by the screen, however, and by the miraculous appearance of another, unexpected, face.

Huh.

He subtly glanced around as much of the crowd (persuaded just as much by his own support as by the surprise volunteer) cheered at Sean Kint, better known to him and few others as either Gred or Forge.

"Want to make a bet?" Domitian said.

"What, so soon?" Flush laughed.

"I bet you that a majority of the thirteen year-olds will be volunteers." Domitian said. "If I'm right you sponsor them rather than the eighteen year-olds and if not... if not I will root for whomever you want me to root for... _after_ any thirteen year-old volunteer tributes have been killed."

"What an interesting bet!" Flush said. "I'll have to take it up, of course, but I do hope you don't hate me to much when I make you root for the elevens or some such."

Domitian's lips twitched in a half smile. "I'll try not to."

They both turned and watched the rest of the District 12 tributes get quickly and efficiently lined up. As the district only had one living victor—Lenny, the 89th Hunger Games winner—there was no need to wait for him to select his teams, either, so the screen quickly cut to Fuzzy Glow, District 11's escort.

After the 11 and 12 year-olds were quickly and efficiently picked it was almost a shock (even, admittedly, to Domitian) to see exactly how quickly the 13-year old group got a volunteer.

Of course, it was less surprising when Neville—Antwan now, he had to remember that—explained that the boy he volunteered for was missing a leg, but still. His 'benevolent' act had earned him plenty of cooing support from many in the room, and the oldest surviving Victor—Birdie, 77th Hunger Games winner—to pick him immediately.

"Good luck, that." Flush said. "I bet he only volunteered because of the leg thing—hey, have you seen my other cocktail? I could have sworn I was holding two a second ago..."

District 10: Luna, who was exactly the same as he remembered her, if with slightly shorter hair.

Neither Flush nor anyone else in the party knew quite how to react to her and were very happy when the fourteen year-old's name was called. She always had been good at acting eerie, and Draco had never been quite sure whether the act was just that.

Still, the surprise of having three volunteers in a row for the one team seemed to have been good for something, as she was picked by the oldest Victor too—Chogan, 83rd winner.

District 9: Katie, another girl who had shockingly kept her name into this new life. She seemed... honestly, he didn't know. They'd never been close. Still, she fit in with her District: perfectly, shockingly forgettable if not for the (to the Capitol at least) disturbing behavior.

They were glad to get finish with the district entirely after that, and the victors (all two of them) spent no time selecting seemingly random teams to determine whether they lived or died. One ended with all the odds, the other with all the evens. Neither seemed to care.

District 8's 13 year-old was Alicia, now called Verona. After the disturbing reaction the governor's wife had had to her 12 year-old son being chosen—which was treated, more or less, as a de-humanizing comedy show by the Capitol—she was yet another badly-needed palette cleanse.

Despite her less-than-impressive physique ("There's a reason no one ever bets on the textile district," Flush had muttered, "hell, I don't even get many runaways or the like from there—everyone's too sickly to do anything.") she seemed healthier than many of her other district competitors, and she actually went back and forth with Lyric the escort, a habit generally not seen until District 4 or even 2 was reached.

It—as well as the general volunteering trend (Domitian had nearly won already)—guaranteed her the support of District 8's oldest Victor: Nelda, winner of the 87th.

District 7 had... Oliver, Domitian thought. Or rather Alman, a well-built stocky boy from the fourth most successful district in Games. Of course, the downside to that was that all of his other competitors looked disturbingly athletic and capable as well, including a massive eighteen year-old whose fellows actively leaned away from him as he passed by.

So, unfortunately, that ended the trend of the 13 year-old competitors looking to be some of the healthiest and best-off of all tributes.

That said, there was still some good news.

"I can't believe you won that fast!" Flush said, grabbing a full bottle of Vodka from a passing avox. "I mean, really! Hey, you wanna go double or nothing? Bet on whether or not every team 13 member is gonna be a volunteer."

Domitian laughed. "Ask me when we get to District 4—then I'll want to raise my bet."

Flush laughed back.

District 6 brought Angelina—or maybe Angelica? It had been a while. Her name was Anika now anyway.

Flush had _things_ to say about District 6. "Rotten district. We've tried to crack down, you know, time and time again. We know they supply the rest of Panem with their goddamn invisible drug supply lines, and we know they have shit like illegal fighting rings there, but every time we try to wipe them out completely it's like the second we turn our backs for even one second they're back to using whatever they can get their hands on—we're basically just relying on keeping some of the market alive and in check, now, rather than trying to destroy it completely."

"Better than rebellion, I guess," He added, after a second's thought, "but I guarantee you that none of their tributes have spent an entire year sober since their names were drawn."

Draco cared a lot more about the _invisible drug supply lines_ he'd mentioned, but knew now wasn't the time to question the man. Not drunk enough, not yet—maybe after every tribute had been announced, when all that was left was talking for hours.

Regardless, Anika got pinned with the only surviving Victor District 6 had—the 18 year-old Gerik, who'd won only two years ago and looked very much like he wished he hadn't won at all (to be fair, his victory had come after he'd been forced to literally throw his last competitor—an eleven year-old girl from District 7—off of a cliff, so there was that.)

District 5, Domitian thought, would have trouble getting Capitol support for a very long while.

He'd honestly been stunned when Harry's face was brought up after Hugo's name was called, having already gotten accustomed to his former enemies/allies/acquaintances/friends being the volunteers, not the chosen, but there he was.

And there he stayed.

"Ooh." Flush said. "It's a good thing you didn't make that second bet with me, isn't it?"

"Seems so." Domitian said. He picked at his fifth meal of the day—something porky—and eyed the muttering people surrounding them. "Certainly hasn't won the district any favors."

Flush laughed. "Of course not! That string of volunteering—which I'll hold to my dying day was caused by you—was the most fascinating thing I've ever remembered happening during the Reaping, and they went and ruined it! And now your team has... oh, I don't remember his name. Anyway, it's not like he looks good. Weak looking, from a district that only has two living victors, and I'll bet he's dumb as a bag of rocks too."

Domitian smirked. "Looks like a natural leader to me."

Flush snorted, then started coughing—"Wrong pipe, wrong pipe. Sorry."

Harry was picked by the second Victor: Geralyn, 92nd winner.

District 4, at least, got them back on track.

"Oh, he looks weak, too! And I bet you'd figured District 4 would give you a good competitor!"

Domitian didn't bother reacting, this time. Few could argue that Garin was capable of much athletically, even when his name was Percy and he had magic on his side. Still, it was clear from the Victors' reactions that he was a planned volunteer. Garin, Domitian was sure, already had a few tricks under his sleeves.

He was picked by Carel (90th).

District 3 was, as always, a shock.

Domitian wasn't quite sure when they'd gotten that reputation, but it was one that held strong: you were never quite sure whether it would be a year when their tributes died in the first fifteen minutes or survived to the final three without issue.

Of course, they only had three living victors, and seven overall, so you were better off betting on the former than the latter.

Still, it was never best to bet on them about anything, and the 100th Reaping was a damned good example of that.

Their eleven year-old volunteer looked like he'd have trouble reading his first name, and their twelve year-old volunteer had to be reminded that she had to remain on stage.

Their thirteen year-old, on the other hand, was a bit of a competition, with Hermione winning.

That is to say, Hermosa Geder got the words out before anyone else, including the clearly intended volunteer.

For what happened next context was needed. District 3 split each and every age group up into whether they did or did not attend the elite district school so as to remind those that didn't that they needed to volunteer if any of the elite were at risk of dying.

Hermosa was in the elite group.

Not only was she in the elite group, she was being actively deferred to by her peers: it was clear she had, once again, reached top-of-class.

And then she volunteered.

The oldest victor Serafina (38th victor) picked the 11, 12, and 14 year-olds. Feron, the 80th victor, chose teams 15 and 16.

Alanza, the youngest but clearly the favorite victor (82nd—it had been a while), chose the 13, 17, and 19 year-olds.

"That was... huh." Flush said, too drink now to talk much. "That was surprising." Then he smiled. "Only careers left. This'll be fun." 

The eleven year-old volunteer from District 2 looked like she'd be ranked in the top 10 strongest of those already selected, and the twelve year-old looked twice as large.

The Team 13 volunteer kept up the trend handily.

"My name is Roman Lare," he told the escort after he volunteered. "and I'm ready to win." He smiled, and the group of women who stood like male peacocks in the corner of the room swooned.

He was chosen second, by Rosemary, 76th winner.

Finally, District 1.

"I know who's going to volunteer for Team 13 in this district." Domitian said.

"Really?" Flush said, jerking back in conversation from his whooping over the clear size and power over District 2's 18 year-old (he'd apparently forgotten that he'd lost the bet.)

"Malie."

"Aha! Your little girlfriend!"

Domitian rolled his eyes.

"Wait—why would she volunteer? She's not from any career family."

Domitian snorted. "Wait and see."

He, of course, was right, and Malie—despite being the only District 1 volunteer to have not been blatantly training her whole life—was clearly already a Capitol favorite.

Not only that, she was also chosen by the only person to have ever won two Games: Gloss, winner of the 63rd and 75th.

"Well, damn." Flush said. "This really will be an interesting Games."


	28. District 12: The Train

** TEAM 13: TRIBUTE 12**

** Fred : Sean**

** The Train**

After the Reaping came hugs and kisses from loved ones, sparingly few minutes spent saying goodbye, saying good luck, saying I love you.

He and George had done that the morning before the Reaping, woke up at two AM and spent hours talking and talking and planning for what comes next.

And they certainly had plans.

Unfortunately, those plans were on a bit of a time crunch, so when it came time for official goodbyes Conor Kint was mysteriously absent.

He could tell his parents wanted to ask why, knew he knew why, but also knew better than to actually voice the question burning the tips of their tongues with the Peacekeepers looming not three meters away.

Instead Fred spent the last few minutes trying to say everything that needed to be said for both him and George, because right now George was a bit unavailable.

After the fifteen minutes had passed and everyone who had a right to was given at least a few moments each—Fred was well liked, but neither he nor his brother had become particularly close to many—it was time for the train.

The train was long, sleek, and elegant—black and neon was clearly in fashion in the Capitol, so it was that aesthetic which covered the train from engine to caboose.

It had ten compartments in total: four compartments of two bedrooms each, an additional bedroom for their escort and another for their single victor, a car for the avox, a car for the Peacekeepers, a dining car, and a seating car.

Fifteen minutes into the trip nearly the entirety of the train's occupants were gathered in the latter.

Lenny, their Victor, was a stocky somewhat ill-looking adult of 26. He had also refused to buck typical Victor trends and developed a morph addiction despite the relative scarcity of drugs in District 12, so there was that.

Fred remembered Lenny's Games, actually. It was a little hard not to—whenever they weren't replaying the latest Hunger Games or it wasn't another Victor's birthday (at which point their own Games would be played for the week), then they played the Games from that district's winners.

Which, here, meant Lenny, Lenny, Lenny.

That wasn't to say Lenny's Games weren't nearly indistinguishable from the others—the 89th only had two unique factors, the first being that outside of the Careers the oldest tribute was Lenny himself at 15, and the second being that following the District 2 male career killing the District 1 female career in her sleep after fucking her everything went to hell in their already tenuous group (none had any interest in working with fourteen year-olds, which meant their pack advantage was much smaller than usual) and by the end of the first week all but the District 4 girl—the 'barely a Career'—was dead.

Lenny had killed her himself by engineering a rockslide, which was, Fred supposed, unique too, but then Lenny's also bashed a twelve year-old's head in with a rock just the day before, so...

Anyway.

Unlike most Districts, who had multiple Victors fighting for the honor to survive, Lenny would live no matter what—victory (and therefore survival) was determined whether or not the team, not the individual, won, and Lenny had all twelve teams.

To say he was unmotivated would be an understatement, because that wouldn't take into account how he'd (despite being cognizant of the Peacekeepers lurking around and in front of every corner) loaded up on morph before boarding and now seemed unable to understand a single thing Fuzzy Glow (their green-skinned escort) was trying to say to him.

"Lenny! Get up now!" Fuzzy snapped, straight-up slapping him in exasperation.

Lenny mumbled something, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

"All right, all right." Fuzzy said, apparently giving the effort up as a lost cause and trying to think of what to do next. "All right, all right.

Well, I suppose we should get started."

"With what?" Team 17's tribute, Adeen, asked. She was poking and prodding behind the small bar at the end of the carriage; it was clearly meant to be run by an avox, but the avox wasn't there so Adeen had taken it upon herself to find the hidden goods.

"Well, getting ready, of course!" Fuzzy said. "You're stars now, you know, and in a few short hours you'll be riding in carriages in front of the entirety of the Capitol!"

"There's supposed to be food, isn't there?" Team 16, Malloy, asked. "Can we eat the food now?"

"The—the—this is the 100th Hunger Games, the Centennial Censure, and all you care about is food?!"

"Look, lady," Malloy said. "At the very least seven of us will be dead by the end of the month, and given that we're District 12 we might as well round up to the full eight. So I'm not going to spend my last few comfortable minutes on earth thinking about how I'm probably going to be strangled with my own spine after some Career rips it out my back. Instead, I'm going to enjoy all the pleasures the Capitol usually hoards for itself.

And that includes food.

So, where is it?" 

Fuzzy looked nearly infuriated.

"Bet you can just go to the dining car and ask for some." Fred said. "Actually, let's do that now." Malloy had a point—even if Fred wasn't personally planning on dying, they may as well take advantage of the good things in life while they still had hold of them.

"Found the booze, too." Adeen said. "Anyone want some?"

She tossed booze at all seven raised hands, ignoring Fuzzy's indignant mutterings about how eleven year-olds shouldn't drink and why couldn't she have been given a better district and this was even worse than last year's tributes and—

Fred chose to ignore her too.

Later, much later, after every tribute had gorged themselves on food and alcohol and smoking (none, as it turned out, particularly enjoyed that last one) and tried the showers and changed their clothes and watched outside the windows for a while and slept and slept and slept and woke up and did it all over again (besides the alcohol part, given that the bar had been mysteriously dismantled at some point in the night), Fred and the rest of them finally got around to what Fuzzy wanted them to.

This was largely because of Lenny.

"I'm twenty six, you know? Twenty six!" Lenny repeated. "Twenty six and I already feel like I'm dead."

"Any tips on how to keep us from becoming that way?" Team 18, Inis, asked. Fuzzy, who had been idly watching the bubbles in her non-alcoholic fruit drink rise, leaned forward eagerly.

"Nope!" Lenny said. "Got tips for the opposite, though."

"What are those?" Team 14, Nevan, sat up, looking vaguely interested from his pile of meats in the corner.

"Go into the bloodbath. Quickest way to die and not generally drawn out, neither."

"Got it." Fred said, sardonically. "Don't go into the bloodbath, but ask sponsors for cyanide pills to be used at a later date."

"Don't even joke about that!" Fuzzy said, aghast. "You know suicide during the Games is strictly prohibited!"

"And running into the bloodbath isn't considered suicide?" Team 11, Taber, asked.

"People survive that!"

"_Careers___survive that, and those stupid enough to team up with them." Adeen corrected. "And anyway, suicide's kinda survivable too. I mean, if you do it wrong."

"_None of you are committing suicide!"_ Fuzzy shrieked.

"Wow." Nevan muttered under his breath.

"Psycho." Fred agreed.

"Twenty six and already dead!" Lenny said, and Fred idly wondered if anyone had bothered to tell him that he was going to live.


	29. District 11: The Beauty Team

** TEAM 13: TRIBUTE 11**

** Neville : Antwan**

** The Beauty Team**

The less said about goodbyes the better.

Neville's grandfather and grandmothers had all sent the entire time bawling. His mother and father had each taken turns slapping him for daring to volunteer, and his aunt had refused to show up at all. His siblings and cousins were even worse than his grandparents.

By the end of it Neville was almost eager to get away, get away from the guilt and the sadness and the grief.

The train provided little solace.

Their arrival at the Capitol, however, was at least distracting enough that Neville was finally able to get his mind off things.

As the train pulled into the station—a giant silver and white monstrosity of art-cum-function that loomed larger than any building he'd ever seen in either life—Capitol denizens screamed and shrieked, clawing at the train's windows as if they could by magic break the glass and touch their favored tributes.

The actual platform that they stepped off onto was blocked off from fans, thankfully, but that didn't stop the eleven and twelve year-olds from crowding behind Harrow, the eighteen year-old who had taken lead of the group from the beginning.

They eyed the citizens warily as they were herded by camera after camera, phone after phone, grasping hand after grasping hand.

Behind them they heard District 12's train—the final one, it looked like—pull in and drag some of the crowd away from them, and all Neville could think was that all of these people had likely already been there for hours (something told him that District 1 had not been shuffled in quite so quickly.)

"Do you—" Anise, his fourteen year-old district-mate asked, "do you think we'd be the same as them if we grew up here?"

Neville didn't respond.

Eventually (thankfully) they were led out of sight of the mob and instead into the waiting arms of their "prep team": ten overly eager Capitol citizens who seemed absolutely gleeful at a chance to be a part of the Games in any way.

They were washed, plucked, shaved, trimmed, tanned, bleached, dyed, and (disturbingly) slapped into their 'ideal look' according to the hovering team, and then (before Neville even had time to catch his breath) were thrust unceremoniously into their outfits.

Jelani was, Neville thought, supposed to be dressed up as an unusually sparkly banana. Braylon was a mass of grapes, Kola an apple slice, Tyrese a carrot...

By the time they got around to dressing up Neville (they'd decided to do him before Anise when she'd begun having a panic attack over them forcing her into what was probably a Pineapple-based outfit) he was resigned to what was coming.

"Oh, don't you just look darling!" One of the beauty team members shrieked. She turned to another member, gushing "And don't you remember what he looked like when they came in? We can do magic, I tell you! Pure magic!"

Neville stared down at himself.

"Um... what am I?" He asked.

"Dragonfruit!" One of the team said, shifting around to gel his green-dyed hair up a bit further. "Polka based every one of your outfits on the most popular fruits and vegetables in the Capitol right now! Why, just last week I had this dragonfruit mimosa—or was it lime? It was a bit hard to tell, you know, what with all the sugar and alcohol. Well, anyway, I just loved it! And..."

He was in a sparkly reddish pink leotard which had literally glowing triangular green flaps coming out from all sides.

Just to repeat: he was in a sparkly reddish pink leotard which had literally glowing triangular green flaps coming out from all sides.

Neville knew that muggleborns had always found wizard fashion to be just as inexplicable as he'd found muggle clothing, but at least neither of them had ever thought this was appropriate wear.

He was going to kill Harry.

"Oh, god." Shanice said. She was standing nearest to the door, and so had the clearest view of where they would be expected to wait to mount the chariots.

"What?" Neville asked.

"It's District Five." She said. "They've dressed them up as—as—there's a windmill, and a nuclear cooling tower, and... I think that's supposed to be a watermill? And—"

"OH MY GOD!" A beautician shrieked. "Loki did what? Wow, he is amazing! I mean, not that Polka isn't, but it's just... what a brilliant idea! I've always thought that something like that should be done, you know, but my sketches never come out right—of course it's Loki who figures out how to execute it!" 

Neville... Neville was suddenly much more thankful than he had been yesterday that he hadn't been born in the Capitol.


	30. District 10: The Wait

** TEAM 13: TRIBUTE 10**

** Luna : Luna**

** The Wait**

The Capitol was lovely in the way only manufactured goods could be. There was something ethereal, something that belied reality, about the culture of the place that made it feel like a thin veneer pulled over to distract from the truth, a visible mockery if only you dared look.

Of course, she was sure that the people who lived in it didn't feel that way, but then it wasn't as if they probably spent much time thinking about it.

The chariots themselves were lovely. Entirely Roman in idea and execution they had been suitably modified to allow the tributes to glide effortlessly through the parade; allow everyone and everything around them to get a good look.

District 10's Team 11 member—Ahanu, she thought his name was, stood terrified next to her. He himself was clad in a decidedly immodest outfit that seemed to be a take on camouflage, only with squirrel fur and his actual skin making up the only two parts of the design.

Her own outfit was remarkably similar, only with snakes. She wondered if Harry would find it funny. Ginny certainly wouldn't—it was a good thing the District One tributes were unlikely to be clad in scales.

"Do you—" Ahanu blurted. "Do you think I'll die quickly?"

She regarded him. "You're in an alliance with Team 13, so it seems unlikely." She said at last.

"I'm eleven!" He corrected. She hummed, waiting for him to connect the dots, and as she did she looked around.

None of the tributes but the careers looked particularly happy to be here. She could see the oldest of District 5 just at the edge of the tunnel—they were going first district to last then oldest to youngest, despite the change that the new Team setup would seem to have called for—and he seemed to be outright furious at the slow turning white blades that spun around his neck and made it look more like a daisy than any real turbine.

"Oh!" Ahanu said. Then, "oh."

"Yes?" She asked.

"Don't take this the wrong way—I know our escort said your group is gonna get a lot of help and all—but... but... at the end of the day all alliances end, you know. Some quicker than others."

"Not all of them." She corrected absently. She'd just spotted Katie, who seemed to be a scarecrow, though it was always hard to tell with the designers constantly trying to be unique while reusing the same ideas over and over again.

She'd hadn't seen any crows since being reborn here—she wondered if they still existed.

"The alliance would be to stay alive," Ahanu patiently explained—she appreciated that, given that he clearly thought she was at least half-mad, "and even if we make it to the end we're different ages. Under the rules of the Game, only one of us is coming back alive."

She hummed again, trying to find Neville amongst the fruits and vegetables. "Then we'll change the game."


	31. District 9: Mounting the Chariots

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 9**

** Katie: Katie**

** Mounting the Chariots**

District 9 stood in a perfectly straight line, waiting for the signal to mount their chariots. They hadn't been as emotionless through the entire ordeal, unfortunately—they'd completely abandoned the attempt on the train, splurging (and dealing with the consequences) with abandon (to the quiet, dignified horror of their escort Glorious Daydream) and none of them had been remotely prepared for the beauticians, but on the whole they managed quite well with their silent rebellion.

Their Victors, too, had taken part. They did every year, so that part wasn't so much a surprise, but it was nonetheless a pleasant reminder that human resilience was not so easily broken. The Victors had even gone so far as to pick their tributes at random, one after another with no rhyme or reason and so quickly that they clearly weren't spending any time bothering to think.

She'd ended up with Torger, in the end. Torger—who had won the 86th Hunger Games at 17—had ended up with Teams 11, 13, 15, and 17. The other victor—Else—had won the 96th Hunger Games when she had been eighteen. Those Games had been especially notable because they'd taken place entirely within a simulacrum of Venus, allowing Else to make it all the way to the end without having actually spilt any blood herself. Katie had quite liked the Games because they were less clearly violent, but the near-immediate suicide of the Game Maker was a clear sign that that was not something she could expect for the Centennial.

Torger, at least, had taken part in a far more traditional Games: the 86th's main gimmick had been being the 'real-life' version of a popular Capitol video-game—every tribute had ended up with about the same resources to start and a visor which, crucially, allowed sponsors to send their favored tributes specific tips, questions, and comments.

Torger, due to his complete lack of personality and unquestioning obedience to his money-spending overlords, had quickly curried favor, and by the time they figured out that he would willingly humiliate himself when the sponsors told him to do so he'd all but guaranteed himself a victory.

His only advice on the train—and, she was sure, his only advice for the year—had been to keep your head down and do what you were told, or near enough anyway.

Katie figured that was good advice in this situation.

Like hell she would listen to it, but it was still good advice.

For now, though, there was no point in doing anything else. She stood with the rest of District 9 in silent rebellion, locked in step with them as they followed the letter, if not the spirit, of their orders.


	32. District 8: First Chariots Ride

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 8**

** Alicia : Verona**

** The First Chariots Ride**

Alicia strongly suspected that the others had planned to stay underground, to wait until at least the end of the parade until they began actively seeking each other out.

She had no such qualms.

After thirteen years of existence spent in what could only be described as sullen squalor she was more than eager to chase what little happiness she had left. There had been times—so many times—throughout the years where the only thing keeping her from a rope or a drop or an unhappy accident was the knowledge of the hole left by death.

Now, knowing that a single person who made the entire torture worth it all on his own, was only a few feet away? 

She vanished the second the beauticians' backs were turned, watching as the first chariots of District 1 flowed out with their faux-china doll tributes on top.

Less than a minute later they were kissing.

(It was a really, really good thing George hadn't come instead. She really would have had to kill him otherwise.)

"Hey." She finally breathed, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes without loosening her hold on him even incrementally.

"Hey." Fred grinned back. There were tears in his eyes, and he hugged her just as tightly as she did him. "You been doing good?"

"Better now, definitely."

His smile turned a bit, but even the acknowledgement that they weren't exactly living in a utopia did little to quell their mutual glee.

"You can't—you can't—" one of the beauticians sputtered, teetering over to them as quickly as her frog-shaped shoes would allow.

"Well, that's a record." District 12's lead designer laughed. "You didn't even make it upstairs!"

"They can't—they can't—" the beautician turned to the designer for aid, but he didn't exactly seem eager to jump on board. "Peacekeepers!"

The two of them were forcefully yanked apart and two minutes later found Alicia finally dressed from head to toe in some sort of taffeta monstrosity— her district's gimmick was apparently going to be different types of fabric this year (_so _creative. Definitely absolutely had never been done before.)

At least she wasn't Fred; she'd found him already dressed in a flashy but entirely too stiff outfit that was supposed to mimic some sort of ancient coal miner uniform. (She would give his designer credit, though; dressing District 12 as their job's imaginary past hadn't been done in at least a decade. The fire motif was far more popular.)


	33. District 7: The Chariots Parade

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 7**

** Oliver : Alban**

** The Chariots Continue**

"...oh, and here we have the wondrous tributes from District 7! Several really good candidates here—I certainly wouldn't want to go against their eighteen year old, and their volunteer also looks strong enough to fight well-above his weight-grade. And there's little Brant Mills, their eleven year old just peeking out at the end of the arena. Do you know, Luxe, that he recovered from a near-terminal virus just last month?"

"Really?! Well folks, as I'm sure you know this is _the _year for sympathy sponsorships. The seventeen and eighteen year-olds will, as always, be popular, and it looks like Team 13 are already a fan favorite, but with so many compelling stories among the individual competitors I can just see myself spending _gigabytes _of money on individual tributes."

"Oh, I feel the same way Luxe, you know I do! Already in the earlier districts we've seen a number of tributes that the crowd has just _roared_ for, like Tourmaline, the eleven year-old actress that everyone loves to love from District 1, and Iva, the fourteen year-old daughter of District 4's former victor Kalle."

"...and I see another favorite coming up now! Verona Brown, the happiest District 8 tribute we've seen in a while, and one with hearts in her eyes too! In fact—in fact Cicero, and you know how I love to get the inside scoop—in fact we have good sources that she and District 12's Sean have already found each other and engaged in a _steamy _make-out session before the parade even began!"

"Oh my!"

"Yes, sir! My sources—and you know how good my sources are—my sources even say the Peacekeepers had to break them apart!"

"Well! I bet that juicy piece of gossip has just made Verona the most popular District 8 resident even including Nelda, the only living victor who was thirteen at the time of her victory!" 

"Mind you, Cicero, that's not saying much! District 8 only has two living victors at all!"

"Of course, of course Luxe—no one can deny that, say, District 7 is better: they've had eight victors, the fourth highest out of all the districts!"

"You know, Cicero, I'll never get over how few victors there are outside of the careers. District 7 has the most, yes, but even District 4—the most variable of all careers—only has 6 living ones, compared to District 2's 10 and District 1's 11."

"My, you have to love the rivalry between those two! But this isn't the Games for that! Here, for the first time, we may very well get a victor from every district all in one year!"

"It's going to be fabulous!"

"Fabulous!"

"Fabulous."

"And you know, Cicero, I have one more juicy piece of gossip for our listeners."

"Oh?"

"You know I do! I have it on good authority—and I'm so rarely wrong—that the whole concept for these games was dreamt up by the President's own Grand Nephew!"

"Oh, Domitian ?"

"Just so!" 

"Well, I must say he—and Thrax—have done an excellent job! I have never seen the Capitol so revved up for the Games before!"

"And here comes the first of the District 10 competitors! Great bunch this year, including—"


	34. District 6: The President

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 6**

** Angelina : Anika**

** The President**

The tribute parade, containing four times more competitors as usual, dragged far beyond what Angelina was used to. The sleek lines of her clothing—apparently based on the designs of racecars from long ago, though at least in her old world they had looked nothing like this—didn't help either; they may have been aesthetically pleasing to the Capitol but fashion was clearly not meant to be comfortable here, and it was all Angelina could do to stand in place as she waited for the latter half of the tributes to ride in behind her.

President Gaius (and that was another thing—she wouldn't exactly call him a 'president' by her definition, but here no one batted an eye) went to stand on the balcony above them when the final chariot was finally in place. He held up his hand, silencing the crowd nearly instantaneously, then stood in silence for a while, gazing regally around him. For all that he was more or less despised in the districts, the man had a presence, an aura, a way of taking up space that was noticeable even through the tv screens; it made one sit up and pay attention, made you acknowledge him as 'important' even if you didn't like him.

As he stood, being imposing, Angelina glanced around at his sycophants. In his private viewing terrace stood a great many other Capitol denizens, most of which Anika could barely tell apart, much less recognize individually. The exception was the youngest of the inhabitants: Draco Malfoy, the President's grandnephew who she first caught sight of only two years ago, when the boy had joined his relative for the first time in publicly viewing the games.

Domitian.

Angelina hid a smirk—she knew he'd hate having been placed in the same position again, but it was strangely fitting: like her, he had been placed where he could work best, no matter personal turmoil over the position. Others, she knew, seemed to fit in equally well in their districts: while she would have thought Oliver, instead of Ron, for District 2, she couldn't deny that both districts seemed to have prepared them well; Ginny's position, too, made sense: she was always the one of them that liked the spotlight the most, but then she was also always the one that (paradoxically) seemed effected by it the least after the war was done and every one of them became idols in their own right.

Hermione was the only one Angelina would have selected for District 3, and Neville's District 11 setting just made thematic sense, for all that she was sure he would have done just as well in any other. Others, like Percy's, Harry's, and Katie's placement, were less clear, but it was obvious that their positions were chosen deliberately by Death.

The most blatant example of that, of course, being the twins.

She was probably the only one of them that reacted with mixed emotions when Fred's new life was made clear. She didn't want to, of course, and most of her feelings were just as exuberantly happy as anyone else.

But his arrival also meant George wasn't here, wasn't going to be by her side for who-knows-how-long.

She had no doubt he was missing already. Their placement in District 12 and the enticing tale of District 13 made Death's reasons all too clear, and she was happy for it.

Nonetheless it hurt, it ached, to know that either of them may very well die before they could meet again, could become whole once more.

At last, at last, President Gaius opened his mouth, and she and the rest of the tributes stood straighter, listening with rapt attention to the speech that was nearly interchangeable with all its predecessors.

They all might hate it, but right now cameras were on all their faces, and sponsorships were the best chance of survival, and survival was a powerful, powerful motivator.


	35. District 5: The President's Speech

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 5**

** Harry : Hugo**

** The President's Speech**

Death was silent; in all likelihood the being wasn't even here, was off somewhere else in one of the other endless universes under that particular deity's control instead.

Harry almost wished they'd bothered to stick around.

He'd managed to catch sight of Hermione, but their locations were being constantly monitored by the Peacekeepers, so he couldn't think of how to slip away. He'd seen Percy and Angelina, too, but the problems remained much the same.

It took some time to get him up on the chariot—the outfit was clearly not built for maneuverability, and his designer (it was the man's first year) seemed outright surprised he and the rest of them didn't just magically teleport onto the chariots when it was time for them to board.

The ride was... Harry was happy that he wasn't really expected to do much. Other tributes, especially from more prosperous districts, wasted no time in waving and blowing kisses to their prospective fans, but Harry would let the rest of Team 13 deal with that.

He, luckily, was the odd man out in this one: the one non-volunteer.

Harry would wait until they all met up for the concrete plan on how to use this, but for now he settled for shell-shocked awe: it was a common enough look among the tributes, and one that allowed for a hell of a lot of variation when the time for interviews came.

After they finally they arrived at the end of the street and patiently waited for every other tribute to file in it was time for the President's speech.

After a suitably long pause (what was it with people in authority and their need for opera-like dramatics?) President Gaius began to speak.

"Welcome, tributes, to the First Centennial Censure." He paused, waiting for the roaring of the Capitol to die down enough that he could be heard. "We welcome you here, to the Capitol, with open arms, and applaud your future sacrifice and those that you have already made for the betterment of Panem. You are here to demonstrate the absolute best your District has to offer and now, for the first time, you also have the opportunity to demonstrate your ability to work in a team like never before. Your actions, today and over the course of the next month or so, will be remembered for eons to come. Your courage, your honor, and your true understanding of the duty you now must carry is saluted, and I know I speak for all of Panem when I say we cannot wait to find out what you are capable of.

I, we, wish you a happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Harry stared up at the grey-haired man.

The odds had never been in his favor, not once tipped to favor him instead, and yet he had still managed to win.

And win.

And win.

Of course, the world as he had left it was still far from perfect, and the institutional issues seemed all to insurmountable when defended by the Wizarding community's own true hatred of change, but at the very least Harry had been able to keep some people alive, keep dozens safe long enough for them to flee across lands and oceans to places more understanding, less deadly.

At some point in it all the weight of his obligations had left him truly uncaring of what happened to Wizarding Britain. Its people were a different matter, but the government? The culture? The history?

That he saw no reason to maintain.

And here the world was even more divided, even worse than any kind of stable empire he could remember.

Of course, _here_ (unlike Magical Britain, unlike the culture Harry had washed his hands of) was also ready for change, pulling at the leash of the Capitol and eager for any chance to break free, to be better than their current captors.

The loathsome culture of this place was maintained by a relatively small minority of the population, unlike the stagnant selfish population of his previous life, and for that reason he felt more assured than ever that what he was doing was right, was meaningful, was consequential.

Harry stared up at President Gaius, and all he felt was purpose.


	36. District 4: The Shuffle to the Rooms

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 4**

** Percy : Garin**

** The Shuffle to the Rooms**

The Capitol was built off of the concept of irreverent opulence.

Percy had never seen anything like it.

New and fascinating technologies were embedded into just about everything, everywhere. Nearly every step brought one into contact with something which would never exist within the Districts in any form—not even within government mansions, or Peacekeeper barracks. Even though he was ready to bet that at least 90% of all inventions originated from District 3, the only place they'd see the light of day was here, among the bright lights and pristine floors that most would never see.

The styles of the Capitol were District-originated as well. It was in District 1's best interest for the fads and trends that dominated the Capitol to do so as totally and briefly as possible; Percy still remembered realizing this during the Games when he was seven: the first style, based in white and glitter and softness, had disappeared by the time of the interviews, replaced instead by truly obscene amounts of color and a sudden fascination with hats. That trend, too, was gone by the time the Games drew to a close: that year's victor was a District 1 Greek history buff, so by the time she was giving her interview everyone was dressing in Ancient Greek-inspired dresses and cloaks.

Basically anything that could be important was new, was gleaming, was unusual and busy and many-faceted.

In sharp contrast, the parts of the city that were built to last, that were harder to send in the latest models of, that were services rather than goods? They were draped, unfailingly, in tradition.

Every interaction one Capitol citizen had with another, had with an avox, even had with a tribute was done in an almost rehearsed way.

Percy grew up as a pureblood, and he worked in the Ministry for several years before the institution fell.

He'd thought he knew the extent of any form of communication that propriety could determine.

He was wrong.

Forget rules for greeting each other, rules for how one should stand, rules for eye contact, rules for bringing up a new topic, rules for ending a conversation...

It took Percy all of ten minutes of watching the Capitol before it became clear that, for all that it wasn't necessarily obvious, that many whole, long conversations were all-but-predetermined.

Oh, it wasn't like the customs he was used to. The interactions between the avox and the Capitol were much more like that; the sort of visible deference he was used to between someone seen as lower and their 'superior'.

Among the Capitol, however, it was clear that two competing forces had shaped their interactions: the propaganda that they had a birthright to a better life, one magnitudes better than anything a district could offer, and the clear social classes that were likely intentionally cultivated over time; all the better to rule over.

In the Capitol the way an inferior may respond to a superior might seem disrespectful; the liberties they took and the assumptions they made might seem to bely etiquette, but it was there nonetheless.

As Percy and the other District 4 tributes were shuffled into the elevator Percy watched with interest as Gorgeous Dew (their escort) nearly bumped into Fuzzy Glow, the escort for District 12.

"Oh, silly me!" Fuzzy Glow laughed. "I've been all over the place, you know, what with my tributes being... well. Anyway, I managed to catch your Reaping on the train. You were brilliant!"

"Oh, of course, of course." Gorgeous Dew replied. "But then, I've had a lot of practice—you've just started last year, haven't you? Anyhow, I must admit that it was my fault entirely, so I deeply apologize. Now, I'm in a bit of a rush, but we'll have to catch up some time later!"

Fuzzy, as the inferior, had taken the blame first, but had not apologized because he didn't think he was at fault; he'd then made his inferiority clear (by deliberately mentioning how his tributes were considered lesser than hers) without complaining too much, followed by a compliment.

Gorgeous, as the superior, responded in reverse order: she first took the compliment and used it to reiterate their positions, before admitting fault and apologizing (as the one in the wrong) and ending the conversation. They probably didn't know each other well: Gorgeous had had two (relatively) similarly interactions with other escorts so far, and in one she offered up a specific time and in the other a much broader but still specific span.

"In the compartment, kiddies!" Gorgeous said, turning to them at last.

Only Caine (the fifteen year-old pickpocket) was still outside the car, but that didn't stop her from spending a few seconds herding him (without touching, of course) into the elevator, just to make sure all of them were continuing to do as they were told.

Merlin, he hated this place.


	37. District 3: The Apartment

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 3**

** Hermione : Hermosa**

** The Apartment**

As the District 3 combatants were led into their living quarters, each and every one goggled at seeing their district's projects at work.

"There's the flavor profiler!" The fifteen year-old whispered to the sixteen year-old. It had been developed just two years before, a device which would take a small sample of your blood then spit out a meal suggestion.

"Forget that, my grandfather made the floor-heaters!" Another excellent invention, one that took in nearly 57 variables to heat each centimeter of floor in exactly the right way with regard to ambient temperature, current occupants, and barefooted-ness.

Even as they gawked, however, even the eighteen year-old Johan was careful to stand behind Hessa.

She, after all, could take the same test as him and score twice as highly, and in the technocracy that District 3 ran as that meant more than age ever could.

Streak Trinket, their ever-present escort, frowned at them. "Well, come in then! No point dilly-dallying."

Their former victors were already there, seated at the dining area and partaking in a veritable mountain of appetizers.

The food itself was spread among three tables: one for every victor, Hermione supposed.

"Can we finish cleaning up first?" She asked at last. This year's parade had been based on paint, one of District 3's many exports, and more broadly color. 11 had been red, 12 orange, 13 yellow, and so on. 18, the odd one out of the rainbow, had been painted in shades of ultraviolet, or more accurately in glowing paints; the designer had made no attempt to hide who he wanted and expected to win.

"Later, later!" Streak said. "I'm starved!" 

Hessa knew better than to argue the point. Instead she and the others quickly made their way to the tables and began to dine on delicacies they'd never even thought of.

"So." Shift said at last, leaning back to watch her three chosen as they finished up themselves. "One of you needs to do well enough to let me win."

They nodded.

"I don't know if you know this, but many of us prepared for this outcome." 

They blinked.

She rolled her eyes.

"Let's ignore Districts 6 and 12, given that they each only have one living victor. Let's also pass the districts with two—who knows what's going on with 9, honestly, and 5's never collaborated before in their lives. District 8 actually fits the pattern, given that Nina chose the 13, 16, 17, and 18 year-olds. Then there's districts 11, 10, and, of course, 3. You want to know who Birdie, District 11's favorite victor, chose? The 13, 17, and 18 year-olds. District 10, following this theme, took the 13, 16, and 17 year-olds—their eighteen year-old is a write-off if I've ever saw one, though I personally wouldn't have considered that sufficient to dismiss the entire team—and I chose you.

District 7's favorite victor, Jack, took the thirteen and eighteen year-olds, as did District 4's, Kalle.

District 1? Their favorite chose 13 and their second favorite chose 18."

Blank faces among the older tributes. Hessa understood, of course, but then this lesson wasn't for her.

"Voting may have seemed quick," Shift finally said, "but it occurred on those little tablets you saw us sitting behind while the Reaping was wrapping up. By the time we came forward our choices were already decided."

More confusion.

"We chose one at a time.

The more desirable teams; 13, 18, 17, 16—they were reserved for the victors the district actually wanted to live. Your teams, in other words."

"We're going to live. Cool." The eighteen year-old said.

Shift rolled her eyes. "Only one of you is going to live. You're just the three most likely to do so."

"Why are you explaining this?" Hermione asked. She couldn't see what Shift had to gain, and very few people in district 3 did anything unless they thought the district or themselves would benefit.

"Because I want to make it clear that as training progresses I will only help who I think is most likely to win. Right now that's Johan, because he's with the 18s, though I admit that my position on that is currently quite weak; I could very well change my mind after I have a better understanding of the remaining makeup of teams 13 and 17."

Hana, the seventeen year-old, frowned but didn't protest. It was likely an old adage to her—she'd spent months preparing, the entire time aware that one small year was all that was keeping her from being on the favorite team to live.

Hessa did not frown at all.

Shift's help was nice, but far from required. Hessa had not interacted with her much which made her too much of an unknown to risk any part of their plan on anyway. She'd keep an eye on the victor, much as the victor would keep an eye on her, but neither saw the point in arguing their side any further, or at all.

"Tomorrow begins training." Shift said at last. "In the morning you will be grouped with your teams for the first time. You'll stay together until after lunch, at which point you will gain access to the training room and may come and go from there as you wish. Victors will only be allowed to start coaching the day after tomorrow—some tosh about team dynamics—so, unless what I see in the training gymnasium tomorrow is too unexpected, I will meet with Johan and the rest of team 18 then. Dismissed."

The three fled, eager to rid their bodies of the sticky, crusty paint. Hermione was the only one of them who did not look terrified at their mere location, and even she knew that was mostly due to an unwillingness to comprehend.

She'd survived one war against insurmountable odds, after all. There was no point fussing over the similar odds which faced her today.


	38. District 2: Night Falls

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 2**

** Ron : Roman**

** Night Falls**

Eighteen boys and girls from District 2 stood in a line, ramrod straight as eight mentors—eight former victors—paced in front of them.

Other districts, Ron knew, had also decided to intentionally herd all the 'good' teams to one victor. District 2 did not have that choice. Because there were ten of them, all eight of the oldest had only been allowed one team each.

One chance, in other words, to live.

There had been arguments, screaming matches that could be heard throughout the Nut, but in the end it had been decided: Mars would live at all costs.

And he'd chosen Team 18.

Oh, they were still supposed to put up a good fight—that's what this whole rigamarole was all about—but each and every one were supposed to fight a little less, to try a little less hard, every time Team 18 came by.

Ron, along with the rest of them, chanted "Sir, yes Sir!" Ron, like the rest of them, didn't mean a word of it.

Winning in the arena had you and your family set for life. Being able to say you shared blood with a former victor? You'd get the cushiest jobs, the biggest bonuses, the nicest gifts—even if you were a complete slouch yourself.

Every boy and girl around Ron knew that, and every boy and girl around Ron wanted that.

Ron's own motivations were different, but in the immediate they were similar enough that he was having no trouble relating to the tributes he was standing beside who would in a few short days be trying to slit his throat.

"...And are you going to target Team 18?" Mars shouted.

"Sir, no sir!" Shouted Teams 11-17.

"And are you going to stab as many of your own teammates as possible, as quickly as possible, to ensure Team 18's victory?" Mars yelled.

"Sir, yes, sir!" They dutifully yelled back to him.

The funny thing, at least to Ron, was that Mars might not even understand that they weren't telling the truth. He'd won the 54th Games when he was 18. This was game #100, and the man was in his sixties. Beyond that, he might've even forgotten exactly how powerful a motivator survival was. So long as the other kids could not be convinced of a direct benefit to them and their families if they did it, there was no way they would sacrifice their lives just so one 64 year-old man could live.

As she passed, Ron caught the eye of his own mentor: Rosemary, winner of the 76th. Her wife, Atlas Kentwell, who had won three years earlier, was currently stalking near the seventeen year-old, her own key to survival.

Atlas had won her games sans allies, an incredibly unpopular decision which worked very well for her. She was known for being hard to work with, prone to wild mood swings, but cruelly meticulous in spite of them.

Rosemary was just about the opposite.

Her alliance had been one of the largest in Games' history, including both tributes from districts 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, and 11. They had, in their time in the Capitol, created a hit-list based on the known skills of each and every other competitor by calculating their known skills and likely strategies, then spent the first twelve days in the arena ruthlessly hunting down every last one by starting with the most dangerous and going down the list.

To the surprise of most of the commentators that year, the giant alliance had held strong until eleven of the fourteen tributes outside of it had been killed. Rosemary had apparently been waiting for that, had waited as her own cousin slammed an axe into the girl from District 10's head before whipping around and, in what felt like seconds, killing off the District 1 girl and both District 4 volunteers with a blowgun she had carefully hidden until that very moment.

The resulting skirmish was much more difficult for her, but she managed to escape after poisoning her cousin and killing a member each from Districts 3 and 7 to boot.

In twelve days the arena had gone from having 24 living competitors to six.

The male District 2 was dead within 24 hours, the competitors from District 8 went out in a murder suicide, the girl from 12 had managed to _accidently kill herself_ when she was one of only three left, and through it all Rosemary managed to take out the 3 and 7.

In total the Games lasted 325 hours.

Rosemary had, in that time, developed the reputation as the kindest girl coming from District 2 in decades, and then managed to ruthlessly use that reputation to keep her alliance together and collect information that she later used to hunt and kill them.

Ron took one look in her eyes, and he knew: she wanted to live, and she didn't give a fuck what Mars had to say about that.


	39. District 1: Breakfast

**TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 1**

**Ginny : Malie**

**Breakfast**

The Capitol loved Malie, and she seemed to love them.

Ginny, on the other hand, had... different feelings.

She supposed it didn't matter; the result was the same either way.

Across the table Organza Braun, daughter of Augustus Braun (winner of the 67th Annual Hunger Games), glowered at her.

District 1 was the district closest to the streets below, and the only ones that had any hope of hearing what its denizens screamed up at them.

Organza had been... frustrated, to say the least, by their clear preference for Malie—they'd screeched when she waved at them, looked faint when she blew a kiss, and even started up a chant in her support.

Organza, in what was likely a direct contradiction to how she had expected her first night at the capitol to go, had felt almost completely ignored.

Marvel Wagner, named after the winner of the 75th and 17 year-old volunteer, had a very similar expression from several seats over.

The rest were... well, they hadn't expected to be as fawned over, so it was easier for them to come to terms with their relative invisibility, she supposed.

Marvel and Organza obviously didn't feel the same.

Off in a table to themselves a similar story was playing out among the victors. Augustus in particular was visibly murderous, but then he was mentoring his own daughter and on top of that...

Well, after his victory he had been hailed as Panem's Favorite Son, their Cavalier Career. His impeccable manners and well-crafted manner of chivalry and dutifulness had caused an unusually large upswell of support, and that combined with an excellent sob story (his own father had been the second-to-last alive in his Games, and the first time Augustus had watched them he had apparently sworn to win his own in his father's place) meant that he was riding on cloud nine, in the Capitol every week and being nearly inundated with gifts every time he turned around.

Siblings Gloss and Cashmere, who had won the 63rd and 64th respectively, had their own not-insubstantial fanbase, but it was nothing like his own.

And then the 75th Hunger Games came.

And Gloss won.

Her outstanding achievement—the only one in all of Panem who could claim two Games—had left him in the dust.

It was visible in just about every Hunger Games from that point forward: the victors would mount the stage to welcome the new volunteers to the Game, each receiving widespread adulation, and then Gloss would mount and, well.

Augustus quickly lost his "Cavalier Career" reputation when, according to the announcers of the 78th Hunger Games, memes began to circulate of Augustus's face during Gloss's applause.

This, Ginny supposed, was supposed to be _his_ year. His year to continue the family tradition, to regain his reputation, to receive the adulation he was clearly addicted to.

And then she had volunteered.

And so had (almost) the rest of Team 13.

And Gloss chose her.

In a matter of hours, Team 18 had went from clear favorites to fighting desperately for their spot against a team that was a full five years younger than them.

Augustus glared at Gloss, and Organza and Marvel glared at Ginny.

She would be very, very happy when breakfast was over.


	40. The Capitol: Out and About

** TEAM 13: THE CAPITOL**

**Draco : Domitian**

** Out and ****About**

Draco had had many talents that he was known, praised, and condemned for throughout his time at Hogwarts. His... capacity... as a puppet master was not one of them.

He'd gotten better as he'd gotten older, of course— he'd even managed to manipulate several Death Eaters into unfortunate predicaments without them realizing it— but it was not, had never been, something that came naturally to him.

Outside of his house all of the other students had thought him in charge— even Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws older than him were absolutely positive that it was he who was calling the shots to almost the entire House behind the scenes, if only because of his name.

This couldn't be further from the truth.

It was accurate that the Malfoy name had power, but only insofar as it was connected to his father. He'd been the man who'd been able to yank the name from relative ignominy with only his superior intellect and easy charisma.

By the end of the September train ride his first year all of the other Slytherins had already sussed out that he had only, if anything, inherited the first.

By the next day's breakfast it was Theodore Nott who clearly held control of the boy's dorm and was second only to Daphne Greengrass out of all the first years.

This power balance changed over time, of course— Theo was usurped by Blaise for a few months in fifth year after his grades had noticeably dropped, and Pansy managed to replace Daphne for exactly two weeks after the latter had been caught in a comprising position with Tracey Davis that same year— only to lose the position all over again after Daphne managed to successfully negotiate a betrothal contract between Draco himself and her little sister and enter herself into a contract with John Harper (who was a second son) which basically amounted to a deal to have two children together, and none with anybody else.

(Interestingly, Harper was found in a similarly compromising position with a male Ravenclaw not one month later.)

Draco had not once been considered.

He'd hated that, at the time, hated how he'd acted as a sort of figurehead to keep everyone outside Slytherin from putting together the true house politics. It had seemed to hurt doubly so because Daphne had been his first crush; before Pansy, well before Astoria (that had only happened about three months into their betrothal, and only lasted twice that long besides), well before any of that he'd had a crush on Daphne.

He supposed, in the end, that the two were related: he had a crush on the girl _because_ she had every single talent and skill his father had tried and failed to instill in him. She could talk anyone she wanted to in circles, easy as breathing, knew how to use every strength, every weakness, every everything to her advantage…

Draco sometimes wondered how many more would have died if he had been more like her, if he had been smarter in how he went after Harry.

If was beyond doubt that there would have been more deaths—unlike him Daphne, no matter the darker leanings of her family, was a truly pragmatic girl and saw no reason to treat muggles, muggleborn, and the like differently—if they were in fact inferior, then they were fail; if they weren't, she'd avoided making undue enemies. This had served her well after the war was officially over—she'd turned up, having fled to France for the duration, and everyone had turned a blind eye to her heritage. They'd had larger problems.

Draco still thought of that first crush sometimes. He'd been drawn to the power, to the control, subtle and never in the forefront but a constant undertone in the daily lives of his Slytherin year.

It had been a power that, at the time, he'd lacked.

It was funny, then, that so much of his work now would depend on him being able to pull strings without anyone catching on.

Making Team 13 reasonably popular had been insanely easy to pull off; he hadn't even needed the reaping to do that, and once the tributes had been chosen the team's already substantial support had skyrocketed.

Other goals were... more problematic.

Domitian watched dispassionately from his seat at the edge of the room as his grand uncle had his monthly meeting with his advisors.

He listened impassively as they described current statistics for various district starvation rates, for infant mortality and maternal mortality and childhood mortality, as they described how a flu epidemic which had begun in District 7 was now sweeping across Districts 9, 6, and 11 and a heat wave was killing off a not insignificant portion of district 12.

He said nothing as President Varus Gaius meted out the absolute minimum amount of aid necessary to keep the districts producing sufficient quantities, and said even less when the good President ordered the arrest of two new dissenters in the Capitol, who had been trying to secretly distribute pamphlets to spread the word about the horrors faced in the districts, apparently unaware of exactly how easy, and frequently, each and every Capitol denizen was tracked.

(He'd found that to be one of the funniest parts of the whole set up, honestly: in the districts an emphasis was made on keeping expenditure low, so surprisingly little was actively monitored so long as everything kept chugging along as it should. In the Capitol, on the other hand, where people might actually have the resources to affect change? Well, you were all too naïve if you didn't think there was a camera in every bathroom.)

"Domitian?" Varus said, turning to him.

"Yes, great uncle?"

"What do you believe should be done?"

A test, then, both on whether or not he'd been paying attention and what his actual response would be.

The problem was in District 9, where they were continuing to experience declining birth rates. In the past 100 years there had only been 16 where the number of people turning eighteen in a given year was notably greater than the number of the total population that died, and the last time was in 80 ADD. Previously the issue had been tackled with endorsement campaigns, encouraging teen pregnancy, redesigning the machines so less people were actually necessary, emphasizing the additional food the tesserae provided, and even increasing what healthcare was provided.

Nothing had worked, not really.

Even other districts where their treatment was arguably worse—Districts 6 and 12, for instance—still had above-replacement rates of reproduction.

According to several studies conducted on the Capitol's behalf by District 3, this was likely because of both the spread-out nature that grain farming demanded and because there was not much variation in the standard of living across the district—there was nothing to hope for, to aspire your children to.

The Capitol didn't want to change either of these facts, finding District 9 to be one of the least rebellious populations in Panem, so that didn't leave many options, and now several of Varus's advisors were suggesting absurd ones, such as spending a truly unbelievable amount of money on artificial insemination or increasing the tesserae offered as a base amount, especially given the district rarely took much beyond that anyway.

President Gaius had been... displeased with all the suggestions so far, so it looked like it was Domitian's time to shine.

(Or, at least, glimmer. A solution that his great uncle would fully agree with would likely be downright impossible, and even if there was one Domitian wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the one suggesting it—there were problems, after all, with seeming too intelligent.)

"I admit this is nearly as out there as some of what was already suggested, but how about moving over orphanage populations from other districts to 9? Their young age would keep them malleable and allow them to fit in more quickly, and it would be relatively cheap because the Capitol pays for nearly the entirety of District 9 childcare either way."

"Hm..." The president said.

His advisors took that as a sign to begin talking over one another in support or opposition of the idea.

Merlin, he hated them.

Hated this whole place, in fact.

But as a puppet master his skills had only grown—he was the youngest by far to ever sit in on this meeting, and he now knew more about District 6's underground drug railroads, about District 2's ability to directly control the train system, about District 4's radio, about District 7's occasional violently effective mutinies...

He was probably the most informed dissident in the entire country, now. And still everyone around him was none the wiser.


	41. On the Lam

** TEAM 13 : THE WILDS  
**

**George : Conor**

** On the Lam**

George didn't dare to breathe.

He could hear the soft whir of helicopters above him, tracing the ground with giant beams of light.

He hadn't expected to get very far, but had pushed his luck anyway—had snuck onto a truck headed to the edge of the Seam and then out of the District entirely using a hole in the fence that a friend of a friend of a friend had found for him.

And then he was off.

For five days he'd made good progress, staying low and covering his tracks just as the friend of a friend of a friend had told him to, and for two days no one seemed to be on his tail.

This, he already knew, was inaccurate.

The only true advantage he had was that his town had bordered the fencing leading to the northern lake; when he was found to be missing (which he would quite quickly, because his brother was one of the competitors) they would be expecting him to leave there.

This was especially true because he had his brother had, three years ago, been selected to take part in the excavation of a downed ship. They'd had no one small enough to get to some of the 'trinkets' the Capitol wanted, so rather than turning around to get a handful of small enough District 4 residents they'd just coopted the twelve healthiest boys they could find nearby.

Conor and Sean among them.

They'd been taught how to swim as quickly as possible, and, unsurprisingly, were the first to catch on.

They'd then dived, and dived, and dived, in ill-fitting suits many feet down.

The ship hadn't even sunk there—it had gone down far further out to sea, and then been dragged closer to land to (according to the District 4 sailors) be used as a Capitol tourist attraction. The first tour had happened, the Capitol realized that the well-over-a-century-old ship wasn't *exactly* in mint condition, and they'd ordered District 4 to remove anything interesting from the vessel instead.

Fred and George had spent nearly a month diving to the vessel, picking up any bits of metal, glass, pottery, gems, or less deteriorated plastic they could find—anything, really, that could be 'prettied up'.

It had been exhausting work.

But now that work was paying off.

The Capitol had it in their records that he was one of the few District 12 residents who could not only swim, but swim well.

They had it in their records that he had in fact swum in the northern lake, that he knew, generally, what to expect.

They also knew—and likely (correctly) guessed that it may have been mentioned to him in passing—that the District 4 sailors knew of the land beyond the northern lake, land made so toxic in the wars nearly two centuries ago that Panem still left it unused today—and that, going west, the toxicity dropped off so much that that land (while nominally a part of District 7) was instead used for the Games.

"There's a giant canal, see," their swimming instructor had explained, "and we couldn't figure out why they made it—it having to be so long. But then—technically the canal cuts through District 7, 'cept we never really see much of anything going south, but we see lots of helicopters and the like going north. So we figured it out—that's where the arenas are. I mean, mostly. I'm sure they're other places too—it's chilly up there, even in May."

So, in total, the Capitol knew that he knew how to swim, what to expect both out of the lake and the lands to the north, and that the arenas were on those lands.

It, apparently, therefore took them five days to look anywhere but north.

Here's the thing: given the Capitol's technology, he would be genuinely shocked if they didn't have heat sensors. Really, really specific heat sensors. The kind that could make out the shape of a body.

So he'd improvised.

The deer, he'd figured, were his best bet, so he'd spent the four days following one of the does around constantly, one of the ones without kids, and getting her used to his presence while continuing to nudge her in the right direction. It was hard work—she'd flee at any sight of danger, which meant he spent a lot of time tracking her in not-even-close-to-the-right directions—but at least she wasn't afraid of humans from the get-go.

When the sound of helicopters neared, then, he grabbed her and forced her below a nearby outcropping and then down, where he curled into a ball next to her—ideally looking enough like a fawn to evade attention. She seemed alert, but content to stay in one place—the helicopters, she apparently knew, were no danger to her, and while the outcropping blocked direct line of sight from the choppers it also wasn't nearly enough cover for any other animals to bother with.

The doe's stink—deer, unsurprisingly, weren't the most considerate of their odor—was hard to stomach, but George didn't want to twitch, to face the other direction, to do _anything_… until the helicopters were gone.

He listened with bated breath as they passed above him, kept going until nearly out of earshot, and then… came closer?

George stayed frozen.

His deer friend decided to take a nap.

Had they spotted him? Not from that distance, surely. But then, why were they turning around? He'd gone a far from linear path to get where he was, which meant he could easily be well over a day's travel further.

Which meant.

While most of District 12 seemed to be, if not actual believers, then agnostic about the continued existence of District 13, George couldn't think of any other reason for them to turn around when there was so much land left to search.

The helicopters were nearly above him again.

George stayed in place, breath bated, as he waited for their sound to disappear in the other direction.

It looked like he and Fred's plan would work after all.

They passed.

They kept going.

He waited a few minutes after he couldn't hear them anymore, then took off at a dead sprint.

If the remnants of District 13 really were out there, then he was going to find them.

If they weren't… well, no one would accuse George of not being innovative, and Fred had his moments too—they hadn't exactly spent the last thirteen years doing nothing.


	42. District 2: Team Meeting

**TEAM 13: DISTRICT 2**

**Ron : Roman**

**Team Meeting**

It was surprisingly easy, in the end, to convene as one group. Immediately after breakfast they had simply been led to a room specifically set aside for Team Meetings—room 13, in their case.

It was even easier to decide what to do after that.

The Second Voldemort War (or the Second Riddle War, as Harry liked to call it) had not been fought on battlefronts with matching uniforms and nice deep trenches and a home base to run back to. That wasn't necessarily to say that traditional wars were any easier—Ron wouldn't know, he'd never been in one—but it did lend itself to a certain... appreciation for the ability to do things covertly.

While that had, at the time, implied at least some amount of magic, the DA had also come up with dozens of ways to communicate non-magically in muggle areas without their true enemies or innocent passers-by any the wiser or, even better, completely convinced of a false truth.

Step One was, as always, to start as they thought you would.

Therefore, with the exception of Fred/Sean and Alicia/Anna (who had, in only a day, become so convincingly a love-at-first-sight couple that escorts and beauticians alike swooned when they walked by holding hands), the rest of the 12 were careful to keep from seeming too familiar.

It was difficult, but not impossible. They'd certainly done worse.

After a few minutes of awkward recon-masked-as-getting-to-know-you chit-chat the team quickly elected a leader—himself, because he was who the Capitol would think would be chosen—and then turned to him for what to do next.

That was Step Two. Have one person in charge of creating the thrust of the disparity between what they were doing and what they were _doing_, so that that way you could rely on your knowledge of the person to guide you through.

"I think we should start by splitting into three main groups," Ron said, "One led by me, another by Jon here, and the third by Antwan. I'm up for suggestions beyond that."

Everyone took a second to ponder the implications.

First, there were two obvious ways to divide a group of twelve into more manageable segments. That he said that one out loud meant that they were actually going to switch to the second when acting directly against the Capitol. Second, his leader choices were blatantly who the Capitol would have expected to have chosen, and easily allowed some of their better tacticians—such as Angelina—and their actual leader (Harry, it was always Harry) to slip by unnoticed. His request for suggestions was just that: based on their own information, what did they think would work best in terms of both achieving their goals and keeping under the Capitol's radar.

Fred spoke first. "How about me, Jon, Anna here, and Katie? That's a pretty good mix of districts—I think it'll be pretty important to spread the people with training and the people who are sponsor magnets out; Jon's from the lumberjack district and I'm pretty tough myself, and Anna and I might as well be candy with the way people around here treat us." What went unspoken was that the four had already had years of training together and remained close long past that; their team would be great in terms of unspoken synergy.

Neville—that is, Antwan—proposed the next team after Oliver's had been agreed upon. "For my team, then, I think it'd be best if it's me, Malie, Anika, and Luna." That team, more than any of the others, had clearly been built with the others in mind. That is to say, with the team as he laid it out that would leave Ron with Harry, Hermione, and Percy—the Golden Trio back again, with an expertly trained manipulator and undercover-man to brush up any of their weak spots. That was not to say Neville's team was a bad one—he and Ginny had done a lot of work together in the DA, so they already knew they battled well in a pair, Ginny had always been close with Luna, and Angelina (as well as being able to work with just about anyone) was also a far better tactician than any of them, which would make up for Luna' and Neville's complete lack of skill in that area. Not only that, but it would also keep the spread of (relative) strength (Antwan and Malie, Roman and Fin) and sponsor-magnetism (Malie, the couple, and Roman) pretty even too.

"Sounds good to me." Malie said.

Everyone else nodded.

Step Three: test to make sure everyone got the real message. Two of the future teams were clear right from the get-go: The Golden Trio and the chasers, both triumvirates that were hard to beat. Out of the remaining six, though, a team of Quidditch players or family members or something else entirely could also make sense.

In this case, shockingly enough, Fred's suggestion—and, more to the point, his emphasis on roles—made it the last that everyone just agreed to.

Luna, Ginny, and Oliver would be one party (Luna providing the unconventionality, Oliver the leadership, and Ginny just about everything else) and Fred, Neville, and Percy would make up the other—with their roles in the same order, actually, except that the leadership in their case would be less of a "I'm making decisions" sort of deal and more of a "I'm going to put myself between the two of you and the dangerous thing while you sort out what to do next" sort of deal.

A lot of shit had happened during the war.

Just to confirm that he—and everyone else—had interpreted it right, Ron said, "Your team's a bit girl-heavy, huh? Well, no issue there. Just don't be surprised if you turn around and we've reorganized and now you've got only guys standing beside you."

Neville made a face at him: interpretation confirmed.


	43. District 9: Training Gymnasium Day 1

** TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 9**

** Katie : Katie**

** Training Gymnasium Day 1**

The second she stepped in Katie knew she would _love _the training gymnasium.

She probably shouldn't, but sweet Anne Boleyn the room had everything. It was huge, having been renovated as part of President Gaius's inauguration to a massive football arena sized building, and included nearly one hundred and forty different skill stations. The sheer breadth of options made her actively eager to explore, and several of the stations she could already see looked fascinating: she wanted to spend hours on the fascinating track, speed up the rock climbing wall as many times as possible, try to do whatever that bunch of ropes were for...

Anyway.

By the time she and the rest of her friends got there (they made it at 12:00, exactly when they were told the place would open) many of the other teams had already arrived.

The eleven year-olds and twelve year-olds clustered in their teams, clearly beginning to truly understand exactly how likely their deaths were—and how their killers were in the room with them.

The fifteen year-olds had arrived too. They were more spread out than any other team; clearly they'd found each other difficult to get along with, and so were now caught between the need to work together and their clear distaste for each other's personalities.

The other groups that arrived before them were Teams 17 and 18, both clearly assured of their future victory. They stood near each other, posturing back and forth as they sized up the team they perceived as their biggest threat.

Behind Team 13 the rest of the teams began to arrive, coming one at a time through one of the three elevators that connected the Tower with the Gymnasium.

Above them whirred what looked like hundreds of drones, each equipped with cameras. Those recordings were not ones that were available in the Districts: they were sold at incredibly high prices to citizens eager to improve their bets or just to bask in the glory of the awful game.

A man, his disturbingly muscular body at odds with his neon blue hair and the painted glowing lines covering his dark skin, stepped forward.

His eyes swept across the groups, each clearly marked by the clothing they had been provided: every article of their black clothing had their Team number printed on them somewhere in white, and just below those their much smaller district number was printed in red.

He himself was wearing a sleek silvery toga, sharply different from the outfits of those before him.

Even the people behind him—the trainers positioned at every station—were wearing an odd sort of uniform made up of a shirt and pants and covered entirely in a striped pattern; clearly the man was not lowly enough to have a dress code to follow.

As the final team—the fourteen year-olds—finally got off the elevator he cleared his throat.

"My name is Grix," he announced, "and I am in charge here. The Training Gymnasium will be open every day from 10:00 to 20:00. You have exactly two weeks—an additional seven days from the usual duration— to use it to prepare. We suggest using the time before the Gymnasium opens to go over team strategies and the like in the room provided; every minute here ought to be used if you want to survive.

After ten days in here you will have your private sessions with the Gamemakers. They will begin at 06:00 and last until midnight, beginning with District 1 and continuing from there. Each of you will have 10 minutes."

There was a flurry of muttering, nearly deafening due to the sheer number of people participating, but a noise from Grix shut them up quickly.

"To continue, the scores will be posted the following day. That evening at 19:00 Districts 1 through 4 will do their interviews. The next day Districts 5 through 8 will go, then 9 through 12. The next day is the Games.

Do all of you understand?"

Most kids nodded. Some shouted affirmations, but they were mostly the older ones, the ones that weren't scared stiff.

"Good. Now, I know you will all be eager to jump to the weapons, but all of you have watched the Games: you know how many tributes die from exposure, from starvation, from their own stupid mistakes. Imagine how many more would die if they hadn't spent any time at all on the survival-focused stations."

He paused, but no one knew what they were supposed to say.

"Released."

Ninety six kids spread out in every direction.


	44. District 5: Training Day 1, Continued

** TEAM 13: DISTRICT 5**

** Harry : Hosel**

** Training Gymnasium Day 1, Continued**

Ninety six tributes.

Harry's Hogwarts class had forty two.

At least there were only twelve his age.

The eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen year-olds spread out immediately, darting from table to table. The Career Districts immediately shuffled to the weapons training stations, and many of the other districts trailed behind them. The rest seemed to choose their stations at random.

The younger kids—eleven to fourteen year-olds, and some of the fifteen year-olds too—stayed mostly together. This clearly wasn't intentional, but all of the tributes were also unwilling to explore on their own.

Harry's team... did things a bit differently.

They split into their prepared groups, for one: Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Percy all went to the first open station they saw, while the other two went off in similarly random directions and did the same.

Their first station was plant identification, and less than five minutes after they started a body loomed behind them.

"Hey." Ohm said. He was the eighteen year-old District 5 volunteer tribute, and (if Harry had learned anything in the past 48 hours) a great example that brawn and brain had no correlation.

"Hey." Ron said, taking the lead despite the guy's clear focus on his district mate.

"You're gonna die." Ohm said.

"Would you like to join the station?" The station lady asked.

"Sure." Ohm said.

"Well, of course we're going to die." Malie sniped. "Good luck finding anyone over 110."

"I'm going to kill you." Ohm said. He looked down at the pictures and samples of plants provided, apparently confused over how they had arrived in front of him.

Ron scoffed. "Wanna bet?"

"Yeah." Ohm said.

Harry glared at Ron. What was he doing?

What was he doing? Harry stopped, turning back to the selection of wild berries to think.

Harry didn't see any reason for Ron to put a target on their backs, but Ron clearly did. There were two possible reasons that sprung to mind: he wanted to team up with them (entirely possible, given that ideally they would keep as many people alive as possible) or the concept of delaying-by-strength.

Depending on the year, the Games had two main styles that Careers pursued: option a, killing off the most dangerous non-team members first, or option b, killing off as many people as possible first then splitting up at some point in the hope that the remaining tributes would kill off a few for you before you died yourself. It was the latter option that typically saw the team actively avoid the stronger tributes as long as possible.

The second was more popular, but the first had far better efficacy.

Ohm, Harry thought, was not the type who would be able to reason enough of that out, so it was the first reason that Ron was aiming for.

Harry had an issue with that.

He wanted to team up with those who were younger, who were weaker. He would have thought Ron cared about that too. Had he changed so much that—

No.

Ron was Ron. He was slow to change and loyal to a fault. He wanted to do the right thing and even when he made mistakes he tended to realize them quickly, for all that it took him much longer to actually apologize.

So, what else?

...

Harry had nothing.

As their group walked to a wrestling mat next to Ohm he glanced at Ginny, hoping for help.

She glanced at the cameras.

Oh.

OH.

Well, that made him feel kind of silly, but then he never had been particularly good at remembering the media.

He could understand the idea of beating Ohm up for an audience much better, though, than any of his initial reasonings.

"Of course, of course." The peppy blue-haired station lady said, waving in Ron and Ohm as they asked to fight.

Ohm went down _fast_. They'd barely been told to start before the District 5 tribute was pinned, thrashing wildly on the ground as he tried to get out of the much younger boy's grip.

Ron didn't find that enough, though. He leapt up, allowing Ohm to scramble to his feet, and then pinned him again.

And again.

The fourth time he let Ohm charge him, darting out of the way and punching with short jabs while the other boy all-but frothed at the mouth.

They weren't allowed to punch the other's head—to much risk of injury with the imminent Games—so it was a jab to the 18 year-old's liver that felled him for a fourth time.

"Give... give." Ohm finally muttered. He was a volunteer, it was true, but only because no one else in his District was willing—he was not remotely prepared for this, and it was very clear that Ron was.

To the side some of the rest of Team 18 had gathered. Organza, the District 1 member, looked particularly raring for a fight, and their District 7 member—Mika, Harry thought, or Myka—was looking outright murderous. It was only their District 2 member, Achilles, that was keeping either of them from jumping up and daring Ron themselves, but even that wasn't a good look for Team 18, and Achilles knew it.

"I'll fight you." He said at last, after glaring at Mika until he backed down. "Want to take me on?"

"I'd love to," Roman said, "but this has taken long enough already. Let's postpone our next match to the arena, alright? I wouldn't want to leave your team with two injured members."

"Oh, come on." Organza leered, "what's one more little fight?"

"Alright, tell you what." Ron said. "I fought your District 5, so Achilles can fight ours."

_What?!_

Ginny grabbed his arm discretely, telling him not to react. It was difficult, but he kept his face blank.

"Nah, we're good." Achilles said. "You're right—let's wait for the arena. Then we'll wait and see."

...well, Harry supposed that made sense. It wasn't as if Achilles could win by fighting him—he either came out at least as strong as they thought he was if he won, or losing the entirety of District 18's support if he lost.

Still. That was a very uncomfortable few seconds.

Harry really, really didn't like this life.


	45. District 10: Team Building

** TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 10**

** Luna : Luna**

** Team Building**

Luna had been put in charge of team building.

She thought that was rather silly, personally, but then she hadn't been asked.

To be sure, the other members were contributing too: Ginny had promised the support of teams 11 through 14 in District 1 to the idea of a large confederacy, Ron 11 through 15, and Hermione the entirety of her district (though she warned of difficultly with the 17- and 18- year-olds). Percy had assured the support of his district so long as the majority of the rest of their individual teams also agreed, Harry promised nothing but thought most of his district would just go along with it anyway, Angelina had promised her entire district hands-down, Oliver thought he could get the support of 11 through 14 at least, Alicia assured the rest of them that her district was rather cut-throat and anti-career and would likely join Team 13 if they worded it right, Katie was sure her district would go along with them at the first whisper of rebellion, Neville wasn't sure who would support them, and Fred pointed out that his district was already quite sure they were going to die and would be more than happy to at least attempt a rebellion once in an arena.

Which left Luna's district, and actually setting the entire thing up.

She smiled, standing just outside her bedroom as everyone shuffled out of bed and towards the tables.

She was odd, yes, but right now that was her greatest gift: even the Capitol wouldn't look at her words that closely, not when she'd had so much practice only getting those she wished to to actually understand what she was saying.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Luna said, turning to look at the eleven year-old Ahanu.

"Begin what?"

.

On the other side of the city, far below the main tower of the Games Headquarters, a man with aqua-tangerine hair yawned over his station.

Cameras whizzed over every centimeter of the Tower, capturing each and every tribute as they went about their morning. He and his partner, the woman with white hair who sat in the neighboring cubicle, were in charge of monitoring District 10, but most of their work was done by computers.

They really just had to watch for those recordings that came up as suspect.

Most tributes only had ten or eleven, maybe twelve alerts a day. They were generally very upset, and their comments were generally made where they thought there weren't any cameras, but they also knew better than to actually try anything. Their words and actions were noted down, too severe behavior was dealt with by threats of family torture, and life went on.

This year had already promised not to be boring, what with the three additional little children he had to watch, but thankfully most seemed to be just about average.

And then there was D10T13. D10T13 (referred to as 'Luna' by the media and other competitors) was... weird.

An alert popped up.

He clicked it.

"I really think you should team up with us," the recording of D10T13's voice started, "after all, even you must realize the draw of the prime 13. Why, when I was thirteen I saw a dragon, a mermaid, a squid, and a sphinx all in the same year! Mind you, the prime 11's a good age, too—I didn't see anything unusual then, but my best friend saw a giant snake."

"...what?" That was the voice of D10T16.

"So's sixteen, to be sure! Oh, the things I did when I was sixteen! Not a prime, mind you, but still. It is just prime 13—a very powerful, very motivating number—and prime 3—a prime itself, and one of the most common and powerful ones too."

"_You're_ thirteen."

"Yep!"

D10T16 looked just as confused and exhausted as the group's watcher felt. (D10T13 had gone through the same psychological evaluations as everyone else, but they tended to be very basic and meant to ensure the competitors _could _be threatened if necessary rather than as an actual test of sanity. The watcher was absolutely certain that D10T13 was not sane.)

"So is that a yes?" D10T13 asked.

"A yes to what?"

"A confederacy between as many teams as possible, to be led by Ron. No, wait, that's not right—Roman. I think that's right. Do you think so?"

"...You want Team 16 to team up with you?"

"Yes!"

"And Team 11?" That was D10T11. He'd been quiet so far, but that was likely because he was daunted by the two older members of his district.

"Yes!"

"Sure." D10T11 again.

"What?" D10T16 was surprised by the answer.

"Well, none of the rest of them are as weird as her, are they? And even the older kids are kind of wary of them, and they definitely have Capitol support, so... why not?"

"...You know what? Fine, fine. But just because the rest of Team 13 seems far less crazy. I'll suggest it to the rest of my team, but only if the rest of your team checks out."

"Brilliant! Eleven and thirteen and sixteen makes two thousand two hundred and eighty eight, and isn't that a lovely number? Did you know that doubles—like snake eyes, and the like—mean that you can go twice as far in monopoly?"

The watcher sighed, brushing his bangs over to one side as he prepared to write down the newest of D10T13's actions.

"What's even the point of all this?" D10T16 muttered under her breath.

"Revolt." Luna said, her voice suddenly less airy and far more flat. "Rebellion and revolution and resistance. Ooh, I do like alliteration."

Across the Capitol, deep underground, the one man who was supposed take notice didn't pay any attention to the screen as the eleven and sixteen year-olds' eyes suddenly sharpened in response.


	46. The Capitol: Training Day 8

** TEAM 13 : CAPITOL**

** Draco : Domitian**

** Training Gymnasium: Day Eight**

Draco grinned, welcoming some of his friends—or more honestly, the children of his grand-uncle's currently favored underlings—into his viewing room.

"I can't wait! I can't wait! I can't wait!" Umami (the daughter of the current minister of education and information) said, rushing into the room and looking eagerly about at the scattered displays (after the proper greetings befitting their differences in station, of course.)

"This will be a fun day." Draco agreed, gesturing to a nearby couch to ensure one of his most eager peers got a good seat.

Draco was privately tutored in this life, so he could claim no one as classmates. He was also treated as superior to anyone and everyone his age, which added a social as well as physical barrier to true friendships. He wouldn't deny that the situation was not ideal, that it was in fact quite lonely, but then even if he had been born as just an ordinary Capitol citizen, able to play with and interact freely amongst those his age, he would still have his sheer dislike about what his peers had been made into to get over.

Perhaps this odd and undoubtedly unhealthy situation, where he and those children he interacted with were merely pawns in adults' games, was not as bad as it at first seemed.

(He still wished he hadn't been born in the Capitol, though. He was very aware of the true misery and danger of life in the Districts, but he'd willingly take it after two lifetimes of inordinately lavish living built on the backs of those sorts of lives.)

Today six of said pawns were joining him for a private viewing his great-uncle had said up, a live window into the actions taking place in the Training Gymnasium at the base of the Tower.

This was not simply a present, of course; as with everything in any world, strings were attached.

"Everyone here?" Draco looked around, ignoring for the moment that everyone in the room knew that they were, in fact, here. "Great! The feeds should start any minute now."

Lotus, whose mother ran the Peacekeepers, grinned up at Draco from his cushion. "And you're sure we can Ruum about this?"

Ruum, the popular communication tool which had sprung up three years ago.

Draco kind of hated it.

It wasn't just what it stood for—it's predecessor, U2, had been much the same—he just...

Didn't like it, honestly. It felt clunky.

Not that that was important.

"Of course, of course! I double checked just this morning!" He hadn't, but then there wasn't really any point: the entire purpose of this soiree was specifically to drum up support in response to the longer delay between the Reapings and the Games. "Ruum away!"

While many of the cameras were automatically focused on some of the more interesting stations, and several were dedicated to following the best of each Team around specifically, Draco and his six peers had also been given joysticks to navigate one of the drones themselves.

As the screens flickered to life each and every teen leapt to their joystick.

Draco wasted no time panning to Team 13. He was aiming for at least one post every five minutes, and unlike everyone else in the room he didn't have to switch among the many tributes: he had twelve, and he was going to make damn well sure that each and every one got a cult following by the end of the day.

Opium was sitting closest to Draco, and as the latter typed out a small message praising Katie's clear speed in dodging practice the former's joystick hovered above a wrestling station, typing about what he was seeing with one hand as he tried to capture a good shot of both Team 18's Organza (from 1) and Team 17's Sara (from 4.)

Organza seemed to be pulling the victory, but it was close enough that it would likely pull more supporters to Team 17—hand-to-hand was not the 18-year-old's specialty, and it showed.

Across from him Lotus was focusing more on the younger members; his favorite Games were always those that were won by the younger tributes, so he was one of the few that were actively rooting for Teams 11 and 12 (though 13, for a variety of reasons, was the Team Lotus put his support behind the most.)

Umami was, as always, a very straightforward sort of person: she'd latched onto Team 18, and would likely continue stalking them throughout the rest of the party.

Harmal was rooting for Team 16—no one knew why—and Jaguar hadn't yet decided who to root for. Queen had wanted to root for Team 15—her birthday was due on day 3 of the Games, and she had been as eager to root for her age as Draco was—but the rumors said they were falling apart, so she was circling around as many of them as she could find, trying to figure out if that were true.

Today Draco's more important plans would have to be put aside, it was true, but there was some benefit to the celebration his great uncle had set up. Every second of footage covered would be stored, and he would spend the next two or three weeks reviewing every moment, every sign. But only what he wanted—which may be very misleading indeed—would be released to the public at large. By the time the Games started he'd have more inside information than any other sponsor, and he'd be able to use that information very, very well.

So, while it did mean that he was focusing on something that he might not otherwise dedicate as much time to, Draco was not about to let even a drop of usefulness slip away.


	47. District 8: Private Sessions

** TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 8**

** Alicia : Verona**

** Private Sessions**

Alicia smirked from her seat next to the other members of District 8. Alliances had been made, promises given, hints and brief remarks used to imply a revolution which could never be mentioned blatantly, never even suggested without several layers of protective wording.

The fourteen year-old (Tredan) had just vacated his spot next to her, disappearing into the training room so that his true talent, his true ability to survive and put on a good show, could be scrutinized and judged.

Alicia kept smirking.

Things were finally in motion, finally beginning to come together, and while she still thought failure was far more probable than success the two probabilities were no longer nearly so disparate in size.

Plus she had Fred.

Her smirk widened.

To her left Putnam, the son of the mayor and the 12 year-old of District 8, watched her wearily.

Tredan had finished.

She stood.

Over the past several hours Districts 1 through 7 had already demonstrated their might.

Ginny had shown off her ability in several areas, an all-round player like she had been in Quidditch. Ron had said not to worry—District 2 had done way too much research into what got high scores, and he'd hit every important milestone. Hermione, while athletically okay, had spent her private session demonstrating her intellectual abilities in various stations.

Percy demonstrated his ability at long range, Harry his ability to scramble, to flee, to react in the moment. Angelina had demonstrated her skill with a machete (she'd spent the previous days slowly working up her skills, using tips from Hermione to make it seem as if she was simply a quick learner rather than a political dissident.) Oliver did what all District 7 residents did—they tended to get fairly good scores, and there was no reason to give all secrets away.

After her it would be Katie's turn, and she would likely end up the lowest scoring of the team. It wasn't because she was the worst, of course, but no one in District 9 had ever scored particularly well and there was no suitable reason for them to lead the judges to believe Katie was anything but a perfect example of her District.

After that Luna would go, again trying to mimic the typical skills indicative of District 10, then Neville, who'd be trying to portray himself as their second- or third-best out and out fighter, and finally Fred, who would also be going the physical route.

Alicia's role, given the general perspective on District 6 and the whole love story they'd already 'developed', would be particularly interesting.

Alicia was going to be their psychopath.

Well, this wasn't particularly fair. Partially because she wouldn't be able to truly portray the behavior of a psychopath and partially because psychopaths weren't really known as team players, Alicia was instead supposed to be more demonstrating the ruthlessness and true lack of empathy to their victims that many previous winners had.

None of them felt particularly comfortable in the role, and only she and Ron felt they could actually pull it off. Given how many other roles Ron was juggling, it was deemed that she was the best fit.

So she kept smirking.

She entered the room.

The judges weren't visible, but that wasn't surprising. Instead several of the drones focused their cameras immediately on her, ready to follow her form wherever it might wander.

She headed straight to Station 18: a simulator station focused on getting as high a kill rate as possible.

Only Ron, Fred, and Luna had tried the game so far. Ron had gotten a quite high number, Fred a rather average one, and Luna none—she had only gone to it because the simulator that was used for defense practice had a line.

All had known immediately that this must be the station Alicia used during the private sessions.

All had warned her within the hour, each in their own way, of the truly terrible nature of the simulation.

She strapped the headset to her face, grabbed the stick she was supposed to use to mimic weaponry, stood on the platform, and pressed the button on the side of her chin.

Her vision flickered, then presented her with a rocky island. She was standing with, of all things, a scabbard in her hand, and only one other person was in view. Still, before anything else she ducked, carefully surveying her surroundings from every angle: this was supposed to focus on the number of kills, but that didn't mean there weren't opponents who already had their eyes on her.

Nothing appeared, so she crept to the first boy and, before the computer program allowed him to realize she was there, slit his throat.

It was... very realistic.

She swallowed bile, made sure to keep her face blank, and looked forward at the new opponent the former one had apparently been staking out.

She used the first's bow and arrow to kill the second (it had taken two tries, she hadn't spent much time practicing, but he was dead nonetheless) and then saw a head pop out between the two before ducking under a crag.

Alicia used a rock to hit his head from a distance, then slit his throat as he tried to clear the blood from his eyes.

A rustle, and Alicia swung around to see a knife flying towards her neck. She dodged, then flew after the simulated girl who had just attempted to kill her.

Her death was slower—she fought back too much for a clean cut—but it still happened, and put Alicia in a position to see an eleven year old cowering in fear.

She made sure nothing showed on her face.

At least the simulated boy's death was quick.

An opponent, massive and easily larger than any teenager had any right to be, leapt at her back, and she was suddenly in another battle for her life.

She won it, then went on to kill two more hiding opponents before a duo came after her together. She was just slitting the second's neck when her vision flickered again, and she was back in the real world with a stick and the odd jellylike substance that walled the platform slipping back from the outline of a person to its traditional flat form.

She left the platform, put everything back where it should be.

Her smirk was gone, but she didn't look sickened, didn't look uncomfortable with what she had just done.

Her time was up, so she walked towards the door and left.

Cameras were in the hallway, in the elevator, in the living quarters, in the bedroom, in the bathroom.

She undressed, and turned the shower on, fiddled with the options a bit so it looked as if she cared what she smelled like the next day, and stepped in.

She didn't sob—sobbing would make noise.

She didn't gasp—gasping would make noise.

But there was water slamming into her face, gushing down her cheeks, and some soap on her face would easily explain red eyes, so she did cry.

She had, over the past several days, taken increasingly ridiculously long showers, so there was no time period she had to think about. With the exception of sound, of movement, she'd already done everything she had to do to seem okay.

Now, now it was time to allow herself to think about the images already burned in her brain, the ones that had just been placed there side by side with what she had been forced to do for much more immediately relevant reasons in her previous life.

She cried for the lives she had actually taken, for the blood which really had stained her hands. She cried for everything she had done which had led to a victory which tasted like dirt, a celebration which no joy.

She still felt like this attempt, this stupid attempt of Death to improve this world, was more likely to fail than not.

But there was no longer a single thing she wouldn't do to make a victory, should it occur, taste far more freeing than the one she had already been a part of.

No more Pyrrhic victories.

No more winning sides which had sacrificed so much and changed so little.

No, this time, if they should win, they would win entirely, completely overrun the tyrants of this world.

She cried, and she forced herself to smile into the downpour.

The Capitol wasn't willing to sacrifice a thing, wasn't willing to risk any part of their way of life, but by now she knew exactly what she was willing to give up for victory.

Let's see who wins.


	48. District 12: Score Reveals

** TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 12**

** Fred : Sean**

** Score Reveals**

In District 12 both weddings and funerals were treated very similarly in terms of tradition.

Bells would be rung, speeches were given, and the celebrated—the dead or the newlyweds—would be covered in green things, covered in the life that grew so sparingly over the massive mines of the region.

Both were, truly, a celebration of life—a life brought to an end, or two lives brought together.

Fred still preferred the weddings of his old world (there was more food, for one, and more gaiety. The celebrants were happy in both, of course, but District 12's weddings never managed to truly escape from the world that surrounded them) but they were still nice, still pleasant to go to.

He hoped that he'd be able to celebrate one with Alicia one day.

For now, though, they had a grander goal in mind.

In truth, Fred had never been much of a fan of grand goals.

He wasn't that good at them, all things considered (the last one he'd tried had killed him, so there was that.)

There was also… he was a selfish man, truly. His goals, even in his first life, had been primarily personal: start a joke shop with his brother, live a long and happy life with his beloved, protect his family from any threats, external or internal, laugh and play and have a good time.

If it weren't for how the war threatened his family directly, he wasn't sure if he'd have fought the first time.

That sounded awful, didn't it?

Still, it was true for most. It wasn't like he had flown to Uganda, or Myanmar, or did something about the Uighurs, and it wasn't like most others had either. At least he was honest about his selfishness; it was something he and Alicia had wholeheartedly agreed about.

In this life, though…

This was not a life he'd earned.

No one deserved two lives.

No one deserved two chances.

He'd gotten them.

Maybe, if Death decided to do this again, he'd be more actively selfish in his next life. In this one, however, he'd try to be as selfless as he could (within reason. Yes, it sucked for George and Angelina, but he had his limits.)

He sat beside Mada and Nevan, the 12 and 14 year-olds from his District. The whole of the District 12 tributes were gathered in the main room of their apartment, now, watching the absurdly wide screen as Cicero and Luxe amped up the upcoming score reveals.

"…and we will, as usual, begin with District 1. Now, I know there was some debate as to whether or not we should go team by team, but this way everyone rooting for a specific age gets a bit of information from beginning to end."

"Yes, I really do—oh! And we're starting! Here comes the first score; Opal, the youngest District 1 contestant!"

The camera cut away from the two faces, fading to black and gold sparkles, before a picture of Opal, a 1, and an 11 all appeared appeared on screen, with a black box underneath. Within the black box a golden 8 faded into view.

"Ooh!" Fuzzy Glow, their escort said. "I'm so excited! Remember, kiddos, it's not just how well you do—it's how well you do compared to everyone else!"

Fred rolled his eyes. Inis and Adeen, the oldest of the tributes, outright laughed. Part of that was probably because both already knew there was no way they were doing well.

"Yeah, I'm eager to find out if I'll be killed first or fourth." Renny, the fifteen-year-old, said.

On the screen first of Team 13 flashed on screen: Tourmaline had earned a 10.

"Good for you." Mada said.

"Yeah, she's pretty good."

District 1 finally finished—every one of them had scored between an 8 and 11.

Next, District 2.

Roman: 12.

Beside him Mada cursed and Nevan laughed. "I didn't even know anyone under 16 could even get that score!" He said.

"Yeah… he's… something." Fred said. He wasn't as thrilled about it as his neighbors—Ron was still his younger brother, and he wasn't exactly pleased about what it took for him to earn that score.

Hermione scored a 9, which was still far above the average 6.

Percy, unsurprisingly, got the worst score for team 13 so far: 6. That was fine, he wasn't supposed to score that well, and neither was Harry, who got a 5.

"Fives for five!" Fuzzy Glow chittered. Eight of them had ended up with that score, and Fred wondered if the scorers did that on purpose. The citizens in the room certainly seemed to enjoy it.

District 6 brought Angelina (who had threatened to do very, very discomforting things to him if George died before they could see each other again, and somehow had managed to do it in a way that neither drew attention nor watered down the specificity of her threats.) 8.

Oliver got a 7, which sucked as he had been aiming for an 8.

The score for Orvin, District 8's eleven year-old, flashed on screen, and for the first time that day Fred took a deep breath.

He wasn't looking forward to this, wasn't looking forward to knowing how well Alicia did. It wasn't that he thought she couldn't do it—George had been all too clear about how the war went after his death. It was just that he knew Alicia, had known her since they were tiny little tweenagers, and he knew that she would hate every moment of it.

Orvin got a 5. Putnam got a 3, which was the second worst score to date (although he had no doubt that at least some of his District mates' scores were just as low.)

Verona's name flashed on screen, 8 and 13, score: 11.

Fred winced.

That was high.

Really, really high.

That sucked.

Katie got a 6, Luna the same, Neville a 7.

Fred got a 7 too.

They had, in the end, scored about how they wished, such that many of their skills would remain surprises but they would still seem like good enough candidates to get Capitol support: their average was 7.8, compared to Team 14's average of 6.4. The only teams that scored higher were 18, at 8.2, and 17, at 7.9. Even Team 16 only got 7.5.

That was good.

Everything was good.

Fred sighed, leaning back in the class as Cicero and Luxe reappeared on the screen, ranting and raving about the scores and trying to build support for every team choice. Well, that was today done. Tomorrow was still going to suck.


	49. District 11: Interview Prep

** TEAM 13 : DISTRICT 11**

** Neville : Antwan**

** Interview Prep**

The day before the first interviews—not his own interview, mind, that wouldn't happen for another three days—Neville and every other tribute was grouped together and herded down to the same place where they'd started the tribute parade.

"Now," Their escort Glitter Odair said, "I don't know why they've set it up this way, but they're doing the interviews by District rather than team. So what your designers want to do—_stop moving and listen to me_—what your designers want to do is dress you up in outfits that match the rest of your team, so that even though you'll be presenting during the last day the sight of you will still make all the sponsors remember the better teammates that came before you. Now listen carefully, because I'm going to start calling out which designer you're supposed to go to!"

Neville looked around. Districts 1, 4, and 9 had already been distributed, so he was able to tell quite quickly who their designer was.

The outfits, thank Merlin, did not look too awful.

They were… odd, it was true, no doubt based off of some almost mythologically old nation's warriors, but then the designer of Team 12, which was situated beside them, had apparently taken the 'underdog' name a bit too literally, so at least they weren't that bad.

By the end of the two-hour outfitting session every Team was clearly distinguishable:

Team 18's theme was apparently 'as close to nudity as is possible'.

Team 17 had gone a very different direction and were clothed in fabrics apparently meant to resemble the armor of medieval knights.

Team 16, bless their poor souls, were dressed in what Neville could only call an 'abstract' style.

Team 15's designer had, while they were watching, changed his mind a grand total of three times during the outfitting, before finally deciding on overly complicated tuxedos. Given that he had what looked like six other backups, the Team just seemed happy he picked anything at all.

Team 14 were dressed entirely as ancient sailors, apparently attempting to draw attention to the most prominent of them, District 4's Iva.

Team 13's ensemble was apparently based on Spartan warriors, though significant liberties must have been taken because Neville couldn't imagine anyone actually fighting in what he was wearing.

Team 12 were dressed as pets, complete with furry ears and collars. It was mildly disturbing.

Team 11's designer had apparently taken inspiration from a movie Neville had never seen, so he couldn't even begin to imagine what they were supposed to be dressed as—aliens, perhaps? Giant chimeras?

All in all, Neville thought, the entire ensemble truly gave his great aunt a run for her money in terms of fashion sense. If Team 12 had had the pets they were supposed to be representing outright put on their heads then he might even have had to give them the win.

He glanced around again, this time ignoring the Capitol's veneer.

Here, more or less, was their central army—this lifetime's DA. There would be more, of course; most districts were primed for rebellion on a daily basis, and some had even gone so far as to try to figure out how to manage it successfully, but these people—these children—they would be the first and most visible.

He'd be shocked if most survived the month.

Neville watched as one of the eleven year-olds fiddled uncomfortably with his collar.

He'd had to deal with this kind of situation before, of course. When Voldemort's army had begun attacking even before he was born it was as if nearly the entirety of the wizarding world forgot they outnumbered the Death Eaters by a ridiculous margin, forgot that they'd gotten the same education, forgot that wands could be used for defense as well as offense…

They hadn't fought back. They'd hid, scared, and hoped none of the big bad scary people ever found them.

Even when they were found—or, more accurately, arbitrarily targeted—they still rarely got enough guts to try to live, to desperately do whatever was needed to survive.

The first war was won on a fluke, and one that not even Hermione—not even Dumbledore—which no one fully understood.

The second… that one was longer, but it started in much the same way. Started with witches and wizards alike turning their faces from the danger, refusing to acknowledge its existence, and then—when the danger came to them head on and they had no choice but to realize the reality—and then they'd hidden once more, locked their doors and lowered their blinds and hoped that they'd be overlooked like they'd overlooked the danger.

And they were, to some extent.

Voldemort hadn't spent much time wasting resources on the cowards of the wizarding world the second time around. He'd come straight for his greatest danger, instead—the prophecy foretelling his sole possible defeat, and the little boy that was supposed to be the hand that defeat was dealt with.

Neville had fought to protect the prophecy and failed. The failure itself was—well, he was used to that. It was his proximity to death, the fact that his not being their main target had allowed for his survival, that stayed with him.

He'd seen his great aunt not that long after, and watched as she puttered about the Longbottom Estate, completely unwilling to acknowledge the reason for Neville's bruises, for his scars.

He shouldn't have been surprised. She hadn't done anything with Uncle Algie either— "well, that's just what's done Neville. What exactly do you want me to do?"

People thought his great aunt formidable.

Neville knew the truth.

So when the Death Eaters, when the mercenaries, when Voldemort himself came knocking at Hogwarts' door? 

He knew better than to hope for someone else to save the day. Everyone that should be doing that was hoping for a hero themselves, not trying to be that hero.

It was up to him instead. Up to his friends, his peers, his tormentors and confidants alike.

They, unlike the adults, should not have been expected to be soldiers.

They, unlike the adults, took up the necessary burden.

They, unlike the adults, fought back.

The battle for Hogwarts was not a pleasant one, and it was far from the beginning or the end of the war, but it was where those with the guts to do so took a stand.

Here, at least, the adults had good reason to think they wouldn't be able to make a difference, and they still tried regularly anyway.

But now they were here, and now they had a mission from Death—one that could be accomplished, if the deity was an honest one.

And at their front line, just the same as every other time Harry fought, were the children.

It wasn't ideal, of course, was far from perfect, but.

Well, every adult underestimated the power of children.

Neville already had firsthand evidence that that was folly.


End file.
